


Saving Cas

by grey2510



Series: Longer Misc SPN Fics (10k+ words) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Developing Relationship, Episode: s11e12 Don't You Forget About Me, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Gen, Lucifer Possessing Castiel, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining, Possessed Castiel, Post-Episode: s11e15 Beyond the Mat, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 03:37:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 27,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6178756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't matter how many times he hears that Cas chose his fate with Lucifer, Dean refuses to believe it. But how do you save someone who doesn't think they deserve to be saved?</p><p>Luckily, Dean isn't the only one who wants to save Cas...even if not for the same reasons.</p><p>Canon compliant up through 11x15 "Beyond the Mat."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who have read my Light's Grace series, keep in mind that the Claire in this fic is probably going to be a little different than the Claire in that series, since it diverged from canon mid-season 10 and this is diverging a year later. The Claire in my other series didn't watch her mom get killed by an angel and hasn't been hunting or living with Jody; this Claire experienced all of that.

** Prologue **

 

 

**So what have we here, Castiel? A message from a Claire? “No cat pics and emojis this wk? U ok?” And this is what passes for communication these days?**

_Don’t…_

**Don’t what? Don’t respond to her? Please. Why would I bother? Unless…**

_Stop, Lucifer. NO._

**My, my. Those are some interesting memories you got there. Your vessel’s daughter? Trying to be her new dear old dad, huh? What is it with you and humans?**

_They are more worthy than you will ever know, brother._

**Hmm. I doubt that. So, I’m thinking maybe I** **_should_ ** **respond to the littlest Novak. Wouldn’t want her to worry.**

_You can’t._

**I may have spent the better part of humanity’s existence in Hell, but I do know how to work a phone, Castiel. I** **_can_ ** **respond.**

_No, Lucifer. You can’t. She’ll know. She’ll know you’re not me._

**I can be** **_very_ ** **convincing. And with the right word, the right insinuation...I could destroy her. And she’d think it was you all along.**

_Look closer at my memories, brother. She’ll know it’s not me and your deception will be for nothing._

**The Winchesters haven’t noticed. I thought they were your new family.**

...

**Aww, did I hit a sore spot?**

...

_Perhaps they will figure it out. But, if we want this to work, to defeat Amara, we need to delay that for as long as possible. But Claire was my vessel. For a brief time. She knows me in a way no one else—alive—does. Your charade will end._

**I see. And people say I’m a monster. You took a child as a vessel?**

_I didn’t understand at the time. Not completely._

**Oh, Castiel. I can’t decide if I was right or if I was wrong when I said we aren’t all that different, you and I.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Several Weeks Later**

 

“We got Gadreel out of you, we can get Lucifer out of Cas,” Dean asserts for what must be the thousandth time. Sam purses his lips, chancing a quick glance over at his brother in the driver’s seat; Dean is staring fixedly at the road in front of them, his hands clenched a little too tightly on the steering wheel to be completely mistaken for casual.

“So, what? We call up Crowley and ask him to possess Cas? Besides,” Sam adds, knowing that saying it again probably won’t make his brother believe it any more than the other times he’s brought it up, “Cas might not want us to save him.”

As much as it sucks, Sam gets it. He remembers saying ‘yes’ to Lucifer and jumping into the Pit. He remembers the chronic aches and pains of the Demon Trials, his anger at his brother when he discovered how he’d been manipulated into staying alive and saying 'yes' to Gadreel.

But Dean?

Dean has never been one to accept it when those he loves want to make the sacrifice. It used to be this way mostly about Sam, but Cas…

Cas has always been in a different category for Dean.

Dean’s jaw clenches as Sam’s words hit him, and at first, Sam thinks he’s going to get another “Yes, he does”, or some variation thereof. But Dean’s response skips right past the denial and stubborn faith and goes right into attack.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? You keep saying that like it’s the fucking Gospel truth. What, are you saying we _shouldn’t_ help Cas? We should just let the fucking Devil take a joyride in his skin?”

“No, Dean, of course not,” Sam defends tiredly. “It’s just—”

“Just what, Sam?”

Sam sighs and grimaces. “Cas...told me he chose this. Because he wanted to be useful.”

“And you’re telling me this now?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you.”

The muscle in Dean’s jaw works for a second before he declares, “That’s bullshit. He’s useful without getting hijacked by fucking Lucifer.”

“Is it bullshit?” Sam asks, wondering just how far he can poke the bear before getting mauled.

“What do you mean?” Dean’s voice is low and dangerous, and he presses the accelerator hard, dodging out around a minivan into the fast lane.

“Well,” Sam answers cautiously, “he hasn’t been a hundred percent in a long time, and we’ve been benching him so he can get better…”

“If he went out there in his condition, he would’ve gotten himself killed,” Dean argues back.

“I _know_ , Dean. That’s not the point.”

“Spit it out, Sammy,” Dean growls.

“I’m saying he’s probably felt useless.”

“He’s not useless,” Dean reiterates. “And even if he were, I’d still take him as is over any of those other angel dicks any day. And definitely over fucking Lucifer.”

 _Huh._ Sam wonders if his brother even knows how many layers of meaning he’s packed into that sentence.

Probably not. So what else is new.

“Does Cas know that?” Sam asks. Dean gives him a look, clearly ready to go on the defensive, and so Sam takes the focus off of just Dean for the moment. “I mean, we’re not very good at telling people that, even our friends and family. But with people like Bobby or Charlie or whatever, we didn’t _have_ to. They knew.”

They both fall silent for a brief second, ghosts of memories haunting them.

“So what’s that got to do with Cas? Dude’s not an idiot.”

“But he’s an angel.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. I had no freaking clue Cas was an angel.”

“Really? Because I think we sometimes think of him like he’s human—or more human than he is. And I’m not talking mojo.” Personally, Sam thinks this is more Dean’s issue than his, but he’s sure he’s guilty of it, too. Cas has been around them so long that it’s easy to forget that he's essentially an alien. He’s an Angel of the Lord, a soldier of _God_ , not just the ‘baby in a trenchcoat,’ as Dean once described him. “Cas can be...very literal. And he doesn’t always get subtle social cues.”

“Your point?” Dean asks, though Sam suspects his brother is being purposefully obstinate now. “You saying we shoulda sat him down and had a heart-to-heart while we painted our toenails?”

“Only if you’re into that,” Sam shoots back, utterly done with Dean’s hypermacho bullshit. “Look, I’m just saying, Cas has said it before: he always comes when we call him. That angel Rachel said we use him back when he was fighting Raphael. And _we_ know that Cas means more to us than that, but does he? Maybe he thinks the only reason we care about him is if he’s useful in a fight.”

“Fuck,” Dean runs a hand over his mouth as he visibly deflates, and Sam can see the stress and guilt etched into his features. Dean’d managed to bury some of it while they were dealing with the wrestler case, but now that they’re on their way home again, it’s clearly back. “I fucked things up. I shoulda...I shouldn’t have…”

The silence after Dean’s unfinished words hangs heavy in the air, heavier even than the absence of pulsing chords coming through the Impala’s speakers. Sam’d been surprised Dean hadn’t immediately jammed a tape into the deck once they’d gotten back onto the highway, but he’d been grateful for the opportunity to talk. Now, he almost longs for the too-familiar sounds of one of his brother’s worn tapes—anything to fill the uncomfortable silent void. But, his curiosity about Dean’s abandoned train of thought is quickly overtaking that desire.

“Shouldn’t have what?” he asks softly, trying not to pry too hard, lest he force Dean’s walls back up.

“It’s what I—we,” Dean covers quickly, the second time in as many days, Sam notes, “always say, huh? ‘Need.’”

“I guess?” Sam has a feeling there’s more to Dean’s comment, but he can’t quite suss out what, and he knows his brother’s probably reached his maximum tolerance for share-and-care at this point. But, he has to try. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Dean dismisses, trying for nonchalance but missing by a mile. Sam lets it go. For now. Clearing his throat, Dean asks, “So what do we do now?”

“I dunno, Dean. We’ll think of something,” Sam assures him. “We always do.”

“Yeah.”


	3. Chapter 3

Home sweet bunker. Dean’s duffel hits the mattress with a soft _flump_ , which is shortly followed by a much louder version as Dean himself flops back on to the bed, feet still planted on the floor.

_Buzz buzz._

With a groan, Dean fishes his phone out of his pocket, eyes narrowing with confusion and heart clenching with concern when he sees the name of the sender of the text. But, swiping open the message, he exhales with relief when he reads the contents before he types out a reply.

    

> CLAIRE: Cinderella story outta nowhere. A former greenskeeper now about to become the masters champion
> 
> CLAIRE: Btw we need a rematch so i can kick ur ass again
> 
> DEAN: Bout time u watched it. Classic right?
> 
> CLAIRE: Happy gilmore was better
> 
> DEAN: Blasphemy
> 
> CLAIRE: Speaking of blasphemy...u heard from castiel? Dudes been slacking in the annoying dorky dad txts lately

 

Dean frowns, recognizing Claire’s last text for what it is: a cry for help under the guise of snarky teenage attitude. Lord knows he fucking perfected that back in the day, not that anyone—except maybe Bobby, on occasion—ever figured it out.  

Pausing for a few minutes, he rubs his hand over his eyes, trying to decide how best to approach this. The guilt of not noticing that Lucifer has been riding around in his best friend for weeks is compounded when it occurs to him that he should have started to put the pieces together when Claire made no mention of trying to get Cas to come help on her vampire case—nor had Cas made any mention of Claire needing assisstance. The sickening drop in his stomach sinks even lower when he realizes just what Cas’ decision means for Claire. The two have just started to mend their very bizarre and understandably complicated relationship, and now the fucking Devil is wearing her father’s face? A face that she has just recently started to accept as belonging to the being that for all intents and purposes killed her father in the first place?

Maybe it’s a good thing she hasn’t heard from her pseudo-father figure in weeks. What if Lucifer had decided to respond?

As quickly as that thought enters his head, Dean pushes it out, before he spirals downwards into horrific hypotheticals, most likely all ending with the death of Claire or Cas, or both. Or, if not death, serious mental and emotional scarring. As if any of them need more of that.

His thumbs hover over the phone’s screen keyboard, and he takes a deep breath before tapping out his response.

 

> DEAN: Undercover on angel business
> 
> DEAN: Cant contact him right now

 

Not a lie exactly, but hopefully it’s enough to keep Claire from inadvertently bringing Lucifer to Sioux Falls. But keeping Claire in the dark doesn’t sit right with Dean. The realization might be a long time in the making and long overdue, but keeping secrets rarely bodes well for any of them. Someone always ends up hurt.

The phone buzzes in his hand again.

 

> CLAIRE: Typical

 

Dean can practically hear the disappointment muffled by affected teenaged dismissal through the text. Sighing, he hauls himself off the bed and goes in search of his brother, whom he finds in the kitchen making coffee.

“Don’t worry, I left you some,” Sam greets Dean, nodding in the direction of the coffee maker as he heads to the table with a full mug.

“Good,” Dean replies by way of thanks. “Don’t get too comfortable, though.”

Sam peers at him over the mug raised to his lips. “Don’t tell me you found another case already. I know you said you were getting cabin fever sticking around the bunker, but we gotta get back to doing something about Amara.”

“And Cas,” Dean adds, a little too quickly for his own liking, and his younger brother’s peering intensifies for the briefest of seconds before he nods in agreement.

“Yeah, Cas, too.” Sam places the mug down in front of him, one large hand still wrapped around it. “Is that what this about? You think you got a lead on Lucifer and Cas?”

“Not exactly.” Scrubbing a hand over his face, Dean crosses the kitchen and pours a cup of coffee for himself. After a moment’s hesitation, he shuffles down the counter to a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey, then splashes a good dose of hunter’s helper into the mug. He doesn’t even have to turn around to feel Sam’s judgmental gaze on his back.

“So...not a lead on Cas?” Sam asks when Dean joins him at the table.

“No, Claire.”

“...she catch a case or something?”

Dean sighs heavily. “No, but she texted me. Says she hasn’t been able to get in touch with Cas lately.”

“Shit,” Sam exhales, the implications of Claire’s attempts clear to him immediately.

“Yeah.” The coffee and whiskey burn Dean’s throat, but it’s a welcome change from the numbness he’s felt ever since Lucifer’s big reveal.

“What’d you tell her?”

“That Cas is undercover and can’t be contacted,” Dean admits. Sam’s eyes harden.

“ _That’s_ what you told her?”

“What did you want me to tell her, Sam? She’s barely ok with Cas, and you want me to tell her that Satan’s been cast in the role of Jimmy Novak over text?” Dean snaps.

“No, of course not,” Sam shakes his head with a mild eye roll of exasperation.

“I’m just buying time,” Dean explains to the polished wood of the table. Almost defiantly, he lifts his gaze to meet his brother’s. “I’m heading up to Sioux Falls tomorrow. You can come if you want.”

Sam’s jaw shifts as if he’s chewing over his words and thoughts. “What’re we going to tell her?”

The choice of pronoun doesn’t go unnoticed, and Dean feels a bit of relief that he doesn’t have to shoulder this alone. He shrugs, then says simply, “The truth.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for The Great Gatsby, for anyone who hasn't read it.

“I frickin’ hate this book,” Claire complains, tossing _The Great Gatsby_ onto the coffee table, then slumping lengthwise on the couch, leaning her head back against one armrest and propping her feet up on the other.

“Shoes off the couch, missy,” Jody scolds as she walks by on her way to the kitchen, whacking the offending feet with her hand as she goes. Claire rolls her eyes, but toes off her Chucks before returning her socked feet to their original positions on the furniture.

Alex looks up from the armchair where she’s got a math book propped open on her lap, along with a notebook of graph paper. “I’ll trade ya some pre-Calc,” the other girl quips. “Plus, _Gatsby’s_ not that bad. Myrtle gets hit by a car, Gatsby gets shot and dies at the end. Spoiler alert.”

Claire glares at Alex. “Thanks.”

“Just do what everyone does: Sparknotes or Shmoop. Or just watch the movie.”

“I didn’t hear that!” Jody calls from the kitchen.

“Sorry, Jody. I would _never_ do anything like that,” Alex replies, giving Claire a conspiratorial grin.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re practically an angel,” Jody snarks back.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Claire pretends she didn’t hear that last part. She knows that Jody didn’t mean anything by it, but she can’t help it if the word ‘angel’ in any context makes the bile rise in her throat. Instead, she swipes open her phone with a thumb and looks for a distraction. She ends up not needing one, though, when a deep rumbling engine that she recognizes all too well announces itself in Jody’s driveway.

She sits up so fast she nearly makes herself dizzy, and pushes the curtain back from the window to confirm that the Impala and the Winchesters are, in fact, here. Thinking back to her texts with Dean yesterday, she curses herself for obviously giving something away, like that she’s still pretty miserable up here in Sioux Falls, and she frowns at the thought of another round of Winchester parenting.

Alex is watching curiously from the other side of the room, and she opens her mouth to question who is here, but the doorbell rings just as Jody makes it to the door, obviously having heard the car pull in even from the other room.

“Sam! Dean!” Jody smiles as she swings open the door and hugs each of them in turn. “What brings you boys up here?”

Claire crosses her arms and tries to ignore the sidelong glance Jody gives her and the flicker of a confirming smile at the corner of Dean’s mouth.

“What? I didn’t call them. And I haven't been hunting.” Unfortunately, Claire suspects that her scoff and defense have been twisted into a petulant pout, which she quickly turns into a scowl.

“Good to see you, too, Claire,” Dean greets sardonically.

“Sorry to just drop in,” Sam apologizes. “We were, uh, in the area. We should’ve called, though.”

Jody’s lips purse the same way they do whenever Claire or Alex tries to get away with something, but the sheriff doesn’t press the matter, and just waves an arm open wide, encompassing the room behind her. “Well, can’t say we’ve got anything exciting going on, but you’re always welcome. You staying for dinner?”

If she weren’t currently annoyed with the Winchesters for ‘dropping by’ on what is clearly not just a social visit, Claire might have laughed at the boyish grins on the brothers’ faces at the prospect of another home-cooked meal.

“Oh good, another family dinner,” Alex mutters, clearly still bitter from the last time the Winchesters graced the table with their presence.

“We don’t want to impose…” Sam says, looking very much like he does want to impose.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees even less convincingly than his brother.

Jody rolls her eyes. “As long as you help cook, I promise I’ll try not to make dinner awkward again.”

“Deal,” Dean accepts enthusiastically. “Except don’t let Sammy near the stove.”

Sam frowns at Dean, but doesn’t disagree.

“Fine,” Jody nods. “Sam, how about you go into the basement and grab a couple bottles of wine from the rack down there. Dean, you can help me in the kitchen.”

“I can help cook,” Alex chimes in, closing her math book.

“You two are doing homework.” The sheriff wags a finger in between the two girls, who both huff in response.

Jody returns to the kitchen, Sam heads to the basement stairs, and Dean makes to follow Jody, but Claire blocks his path, drawing her height up as much as she can, even though the hunter is at least a good half a foot taller than her—probably even more in his boots.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?” she hisses at him, indifferent to the fact that Alex can most definitely hear every word. “I’m fine, I don’t need you here.”

Something flashes across Dean’s face that Claire doesn’t have a chance to decipher before it disappears again. “We told you, we were in the area—”

“Bullshit, Dean. I text you and then the next day you show up? I’m not stupid.”

Dean’s shoulders slump. “It’s a long story. We’ll tell you after dinner.”

“No, you can tell me now.”

“Hey, Dean, can you—” Jody’s voice says from behind Claire, who doesn’t take her eyes off of Dean, despite the fact that Jody has come to stand in between them. Taking one look at the two of them, Jody raises a brow, then turns to Dean. “I think dinner’s going to have to wait. What’s going on, Dean?”

Dean breaks eye contact with Claire, which gives her a small sense of accomplishment. He clears his throat. “It’s, uh, about Cas.”

Cold tendrils reach up through Claire’s middle, wrapping around her spine and catching her breath. “What about him?” she grinds out. Dean’s eyes flick between Jody and Claire. Jody sighs, then puts a hand on Claire’s shoulder.

“Do you want me here for this?”

Honestly, Claire isn’t sure. On the one hand, Jody’s strong presence calls to her, but on the other, she’s not sure if she can bring the sheriff into her already conflicted parental situation. Jody knows most of the story, but she hadn’t been there for any of it, and Claire’s never spoken of it—Castiel, her mother, the demons, the angels… All that Jody knows has come from Sam and Dean.

“I’ll be ok,” Claire says with a small smile that she hopes conveys that she appreciates the offer. Jody nods in understanding just as Sam arrives, two bottles of red wine in hand.

“I grabbed a Zin and Cab,” he’s saying before he notices the tense tableau in the hallway. “Did you tell her?” he asks Dean.

“Not yet.”

“Tell me _what_?” Claire asks with growing impatience and concern.

“Alex, how about you and I…?” Jody says into the living room with a not at all subtle flick of her eyes to the other room.

“Yeah, sure,” Alex agrees, hurrying after Jody.

Once they’re gone, Dean sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “You might wanna sit down for this.”

“I’m fine here,” Claire retorts, crossing her arms and jutting out her hip. For a moment, Dean looks like he did outside the high school right before he’d gone all dad on her and told her stop taking Jody for granted, but it only lasts for a second before he shrugs and takes a seat in the armchair Alex just vacated. Sam gives her a sympathetic half smile, then he, too, takes a seat on the loveseat after depositing the wine bottles on the coffee table. Feeling foolish being left standing, Claire bites her lower lip then perches on the armrest of the couch, which is as much of a compromise as she’s willing to make.

Dean is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and Claire’s about to ask what it is they need to tell her again when he breaks the silence. “Cas isn’t really undercover.”

“Yeah, I guessed that,” Claire responds dryly. “He lose his phone or something?”

“I wish that were it.” Dean’s voice is dark and bitter.

“We, uh, we’re fighting something big,” Sam picks up the story. “Bigger than we’ve ever faced. The Darkness.”

“That shitty band?” Ok, she could see how that would be terrifying. The jumpsuits alone...

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up sadly. “No, as in God’s freaking sister.”

“God has a sister?”

“Yeah,” Sam confirms, and Claire blinks and shakes her head, trying to wrap her head around the idea of God having a _sister_. Sure, her belief in angels has changed a lot over the years compared to the innocence of her childhood, and sure, she can’t say she’s been God’s biggest fan of late, but God is _God._ God, who has only ever explained his existence, as Claire had been taught, as “I am,” can’t have something as normal as a _sister_ , an equal.

“She’s a bitch,” Dean spits with a personal vehemence that Claire can’t quite comprehend.

Her mind is still bending and twisting uncomfortably with this new celestial hierarchy—it’s like thinking about infinity for too long. So, she tries to push that aside and latch onto the salient point of this conversation. “What does this have to do with Castiel?”

She looks to Dean, but he stares at the floor, unwilling to meet her eyes. His shoulders are tense and she can see a muscle working in his jaw. This leaves Sam to take up the narrative torch again.

“The last time the Darkness got out, the archangels were able to lock her back up. Lucifer was given the key: the Mark of Cain.”

“ _The_ Mark of Cain?”

“Which then I got,” Dean mutters, although he does look up to her at this. “That’s why I flipped out last year.”

Unpleasant, violent, bloody memories of last year and stories from Sunday school whirl in her head as she tries to make sense of all this. She swallows. “And now?”

“We got the Mark off,” Dean says heavily. “And that’s what let Amara, the Darkness, out again.”

“And Castiel?” Her lower lip trembles. “He’s still alive, right?”

“He’s still alive,” Sam confirms. “But—”

“He let Lucifer possess him. So Lucifer can beat the Darkness again,” Dean rushes, and it takes Claire a second to process what the elder Winchester has said. Understanding hits her, and she bolts up from her perch.

“Are you saying,” she half-whispers, half-growls, “that Castiel let the Devil take him over? That my dad’s body…?”

The words trail off, and Sam stands up from the loveseat. “He thinks he’s doing the right thing,” he tries to explain. “Cas chose this. For the greater good. To save the world.”

It doesn’t matter that Sam’s voice is calm, logical, and soothing. It doesn’t matter that his eyes are pleading with her to understand. Her hands ball into fists by her sides, and she savors the bite of her nails into the flesh of her palms, the pain sharp, but comprehensible and almost grounding. She glares at Sam, then turns her attention to Dean.

“You said you would keep an eye on him,” she grits out through her teeth, not caring in the slightest that Dean looks like he’s about to shatter into a million pieces.  

“I—we—fucked up. You think I don’t know that?” Dean chokes out, his words laced with apology, defense, and guilt. “Claire, I—”

“Shut. Up.” The words almost hiss through her teeth out at him, and tears sting in her eyes without falling. Without another word, she storms through the living room, past Jody, who has reappeared in the doorway, and heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time towards the sanctuary of her bare bedroom.


	5. Chapter 5

“What the hell just happened?” Jody asks the boys after quickly dodging the teen’s warpath to her room.

“Long version or the short version?” Dean answers moodily.

“Lucifer is possessing Cas,” Sam explains, and Jody can only assume that’s the aforementioned short version.

“Lucifer? As in _Satan_?” Her eyebrows are quickly becoming fast friends with her hairline, but at least her jaw hasn’t hit the floor yet. Hard looks and nods from the boys confirm her question. “Right.”

And with that, she climbs the stairs. Admittedly, she is _way_ out of her area of expertise— _Satan? Seriously? Holy shit_ , is all she's thinking on a permanent loop—but she’s got a decent handle on dealing with teenage girls. Her ears are cocked as she ascends, listening for the signs of a tantrum, but Claire’s room is suspiciously silent. A knock on the door earns her no reply, and so Jody simply opens it, revealing Claire pacing, fists clenching and unclenching.

“What?” the girl snarls, but the harshness of her voice does little to hide its origins in tears.

“Just checking in,” Jody says, closing the door behind her. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Ok.”

The simple acceptance shocks Claire into meeting Jody’s eyes, and there’s a challenge in the girl’s own, as if daring Jody to see who will break first. But, Jody’s a practiced hand at this, thanks to Alex, and she’s content to wait. And she’s content to sit in silence, if that’s what Claire needs right now. Claire chews on her bottom lip and pulls the cuffs of her sleeves over her hands, the fingers just poking out and worrying the edges of the fabric.

“I shouldn’t have texted Dean,” Claire says finally, and to be honest, Jody’s a bit surprised the girl broke the silence this quickly. “I’m fine I don’t need any of them but now it’s like I’m a little kid who can’t take care of herself again but it doesn’t matter ‘cause it’s just _Cas_ it’s not like he’s my dad or whatever and I don’t _need_ them and I just...I just…”

Claire’s arms, which had been gesticulating widely during the tirade, flap tiredly at her sides and she sinks onto the bed, her toes pointing into each other on the floor in a way that makes Jody’s heart break a little because Claire looks so _young_ , despite her rough edges. Taking the opening, Jody crosses the room and sits next to Claire, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, the hand gently pulling the blonde head towards her. Hiccupping with tears, Claire lets herself be held, and she rests her head on Jody just below the collarbone.

Jody presses a soft kiss into the thick blonde strands, then says in a near whisper, “It was easier when you didn’t have to care, wasn’t it?”

Because Jody gets it. She thinks of the walls that she has built in her own heart, made of bricks of pain and mourning, how some of them have started to crumble in recent years, how she worries if she will ever be able to build them back if she needs to, if she loses everyone again.

Claire doesn’t respond aloud, but she does nod her head, smearing tears into Jody’s shirt. The cynical part of Jody’s brain absently registers that it’s a small blessing Claire hasn’t been wearing quite as much makeup these days because Lord knows it’s a bitch to get mascara and eyeliner out of a shirt. Not that a shirt is all that important in the grand scheme of things.

“It’s gonna be ok, Claire.” The words sound paltry in her own ears.

“You don’t know that,” Claire huffs out, her voice thick.

“You’re right, I don’t. But I know you.”

They don’t talk for another five minutes or so. Jody combs her fingers through Claire’s hair until the girl’s breathing finally steadies and she sits upright again. Before she leaves, Jody gives Claire’s hand a squeeze.

“If you don’t feel like coming down to dinner, I’ll bring you something in a bit, ok?”

Claire nods miserably, wiping her face with her sleeve. With a sad smile, Jody makes her way back downstairs.

 

As she passes the back office, Jody catches Alex’s eye when the girl looks up from her laptop. They exchange a silent conversation of reassurance, and then Jody tries to make her way to the kitchen, but runs into a giant wall of Winchester.

“Oof, sorry, Sam,” she says, startled at his sudden appearance around the corner. They each take a step back to give the other space, and Jody sees how Sam’s face is creased with concern.

“How is she?” he asks, eyes flicking up in the general direction of Claire’s room.

“Not good,” Jody admits.

“Do you think I should…?” Sam’s tight expression reminds Jody just how much these boys have been through, how much she doesn’t even know about.

“Probably not a bad idea,” Jody sighs. “Teenage drama, I can handle. But Satan’s not exactly in the parenting handbook. That’s you guys’ domain.”

“Right,” Sam chuckles with false levity, then squares his shoulders and heads to the stairs, allowing Jody to pass on towards the kitchen.

What she finds there is nearly as surprising as the whole Lucifer situation.

Dean looks up sheepishly as she enters, dropping the large Ziploc bag filled with what looks like cornflake crumbs onto the counter. “I had to do something,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “I saw you had pork chops defrosting, and so I figured…”

She pats him on the shoulder with a smile. “No, this is great, thank you.” If she’d had time, she’d been planning on marinating the chops, but cornflakes’ll do just fine. “Whaddya say we get those chops in the oven and get a side going? We got rice or mashed potatoes.”

“Spuds. That gravy you made last time…” At the memory, Dean looks like he’s died and gone to Heaven. Ok, bad analogy, given the circumstances.

They work together nearly quietly for a few minutes, their only talk being cooking-related. She’s stirring mashed potatoes on the stove when she chances a look over at Dean, who’d been convinced to chop up vegetables for a salad.

“So. Cas,” Jody begins, unsure where else to start. Dean looks up sharply, his jaw set.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “Is, uh, Claire ok? Sam’s good at, you know…”

“I think she’ll be ok.” She turns the stove down to a lower temperature, then leans a hip against the counter. “How about you, though?”

“Me?” Dean looks genuinely surprised by the question. He ducks his head, then picks up the cutting board to scrape the halved cherry tomatoes into the large salad bowl. “I’m fine.”

“Uh huh.” Whatever’s going on with Cas and Lucifer is hitting them all hard, that much is obvious. But there’s an undercurrent of _something_ in Dean’s whole demeanor that’s been niggling at the back of Jody’s mind ever since she stepped into the kitchen. “Castiel is the one who pulled you out of Hell, right?”

“Yeah. Spent a year in Purgatory together, too,” Dean adds with an attempt at matter-of-factness that hits wide of the mark. “Me ‘n Cas’ve seen some crazy shit.”

“And Sam?” Jody asks neutrally, noting Dean’s omission of his brother with a troubled frown.

“Uh, yeah, Sam’s seen some shit, too.”

Not exactly the question she was asking. Her eyes narrow a little, trying to get a read on the elder Winchester. Truth of the matter is, she just doesn’t know Dean quite as well. Sam, at least, she’s worked with a few times—trying to save Dean, in each case.

“We’re gonna get Cas back,” Dean tells her, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself. “But we had to tell Claire, you know?” He finally gives up on the salad and leans back against the counter, scrubbing his face with his hand. “Christ. I—we—shoulda known something was up with the dude.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Dean,” Jody tries to assure him, even though she has no idea if there is any truth to the matter.

“Yeah, I kinda do.” He crosses his arms. “It’s a long story.”

Something in Dean’s expression finally hits home to Jody, and it’s as if the cartoon lightbulb has gone off over her head. Sure, there’s the guilt and pain that are practically broadcasting at loudspeaker levels, but that extra _something_ is an emotion Jody wouldn’t have predicted.

She wonders if Dean knows what that emotion is, though judging by how hard he seems to be fighting it, she thinks he does. She can’t exactly blame him. Love—no matter its form—is hard. Love can be dangerous and painful.

Leaning forward, she puts a hand on Dean’s forearm and ducks a little into his line of sight, which is focused on an undefined space on the floor. “You’ll get him back, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes, looking a little panicked and uncertain, search hers. For judgment? For more prying questions? She’s not sure, and she doesn’t get an answer because Dean clears his throat and pushes off the counter with just a hint of bluster and resolve before returning to his food prep, obviously determined move on.

The silence is heavier in the kitchen, but not altogether terrible. Both stay wrapped up in their own thoughts until Alex ventures in to grab a soda from the fridge. Sam returns not long after, and he and Alex set the table.

When the timer on the oven beeps and the pork chops emerge, Jody grabs a plate from the cabinet, ready to make up a plate for Claire. But, the sound of hesitant footsteps on the stairs makes Jody change course, and she brings the plate to the table with relief.


	6. Chapter 6

_Did you really think Crowley would lead you to another storage unit that had another Hand of God?_

**No, but leave no stone unturned, brother. You do want me to defeat Amara, don’t you?**

_Of course._

**Then again…**

_Then again what?_

**Well, you are rather attached to your little pet humans. I guess it’s no surprise you’d be rooting for Doggy.**

_Remember, “Doggy” just outwitted_ _you_ _a second time, “brother.”_


	7. Chapter 7

Sam’s knock on the door is gentle and questioning, and he reflects on how similar this situation is to the last time he and Dean were in Sioux Falls. Apparently, Claire thinks the same because she opens the door, gives him a look, and says, “This again?”

Sam shrugs with a mild apology. “Can I come in?”

“Let me guess: good cop, bad cop. You’re going to tell me how you understand what I’m going through and then Dean’ll get mad at me later.”

 _Off to a good start already_ , he thinks. “I can’t speak for Dean, but no, I’m not going to tell you I know what you’re going through.”

“So what do you want?” she asks as she pushes the door open the rest of the way, stepping back to let him into the room. He gestures to the bed, and she waves a hand of reluctant invitation, which he takes. If there’s one disadvantage to his height—besides crushed kneecaps in cars or trying to find jeans that fit or...ok so there are a lot of disadvantages—it’s that he always seems unnecessarily imposing; he figures sitting might alleviate some of that. Claire, however, stays standing, and Sam lets her have that measure of control.

“I wanted to talk about Cas,” he starts, and at Claire’s eyeroll that clearly says _no shit, Sherlock_ , he adds, “I mean, like I said, I can’t tell you I know what you’re going through, but I’ve been in Cas’ position.”

Claire peers at him. “What, you let Lucifer take you for a joyride?” The doubt practically drips from her words.

“Yeah, I did.”

The admission has its desired effect, and Sam lets the words hang in the air.

“Why? Why would _anyone_ do that?”

Sam grimaces, the memories of the Apocalypse, of the Cage, of the hallucinations—all of it, threatening to rise up and drown him. “It’s how we stopped the Apocalypse. I said ‘yes’ to Lucifer, and eventually I was able to throw both of us into Hell.” He pauses. “I didn’t _want_ to be possessed by Lucifer. But it was our only option.”

“But you’re here now.”

“Yeah, but when I said ‘yes,’ we didn’t have a gameplan for getting me out of Hell again. I thought that’s where I was going to be, forever. And I still said ‘yes.’”

The girl chews this over, leaning back against the wall near the door to what Sam assumes is a closet. “Why?”

He’s pretty sure that she knows the answer, but just needs to hear it. “Because it was one life to save billions. My life isn’t worth more than the lives of everyone else on Earth. And I think Cas thought—thinks—the same.”

“Yeah, well, I’m tired of everyone sacrificing themselves for the greater good,” Claire says bitterly. “My dad, my mom, Castiel… What about the rest of us? The ones who get left behind?”

Sam ducks his head, faces of the dead flashing in his mind’s eye. Dad. Dean. Bobby. Kevin. Ellen. Jo. Charlie… All of them had laid their lives on the line, willingly, for the greater good. For some reason, he thinks particularly of Ellen, refusing to let Jo die alone, knowing she couldn’t live if her daughter sacrificed herself.

He thinks of how hurt Dean had been when Sam had admitted after the Demon Trials that he’d been prepared to die, that he’d made peace with that.

“People don’t sacrifice themselves because they want to leave you behind, because they don’t care,” Sam explains, as gently as he can. “They do it _because_ they care, _because_ they love you. They do it so that you can live.”

“Yeah, because my life’s been such a party ever since,” Claire mutters, but her shoulders sag, and Sam is relieved to see some of her anger and bitterness deflate, even if only a little. “I get it. I guess. But how the hell are you guys cool with the Devil on the loose? Isn’t he, like, the biggest bad of them all?”

“The Darkness is worse. Well, more powerful, at least.” He runs a hand through his hair, then takes a deep breath, and admits, “But honestly, knowing Lucifer is out there fucking terrifies me. I know what he’s capable of.”

He looks up to meet Claire’s eyes, and finds them appraising him critically, and he’s almost startled by how the intense blue gaze is so similar to Cas’. It’s an uncomfortable realization, and he unconsciously sends up a silent apology to Jimmy Novak.

With a final nod, Claire seems to make up her mind about something. “We’re going to get Cas back, right?”

Sam doesn’t even pretend to be surprised by Claire including herself in this decision. “We’re working on it. And we could use all the help we can get.” He gets up, and makes his way over to the door. “I think Jody and Dean’ve got dinner going, if you want to come down.”

“Maybe,” Claire allows, which Sam is going to consider a win.

 

Back downstairs, Sam finds Jody and Dean finishing up dinner, and the smells of pork chops and mashed potatoes make his mouth water. Alex and Sam make short work of setting the table, although Alex definitely gives him a sarcastic eyebrow raise when Sam pauses in laying out the silverware—but, hey, it’s not like he’s done a lot of table setting and fine dining in his life.

Dinner is far more subdued than the last time, although Sam is thankful for the lack of sex ed going on. He, Jody, and Alex carry much of conversation, and Sam is surprised at how easily the topics flow among the two women. Despite the tragedy and drama from last time they visited, it seems that Alex is doing well in school again, and has even started to hear back from colleges. Claire eats some, but mostly just pushes her mashed potatoes around on her plate. Dean is also uncharacteristically quiet and a bit broody, but he does join into the general discussion on occasion.

“Well, Dean, I guess you didn’t kill us with the pork chops,” Alex quips, putting her fork down on her empty plate. Sam, however, doesn’t care that everyone else is mostly done eating; there’s a scoop of mashed potatoes still calling his name.

“Hey, I can cook,” his brother replies. “It’s not like—”

_Ding dong._

The sound of the doorbell makes them all freeze, wary expressions on all of their faces.

“Probably just a neighbor,” Jody says with forced brightness, getting up from the table and trying to wave off Sam and Dean. It doesn’t work, and the brothers start to follow her to the door.

Jody, much to Sam’s relief, also grabs a shotgun on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone want to hazard a guess at who's at the door? :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting two chapters today -- make sure you didn't miss the previous one!

_But now...you’re nothing more than Dean Winchester’s number one fan._

The irony of Crowley’s next move in light of Lucifer’s taunt isn’t lost on him, but in his mind, there’s a far more delicious level of irony that Lucifer, the narcissistic prat, hasn’t picked up on. Then again, if the Devil’s the one piloting the good ship Castiel for the foreseeable future, then perhaps Crowley _is_ the current president of the Dean Winchester Fan Club.

Except Crowley’s always had a thing for black eyes, not green. Not that that had ended particularly well.

In any case, after a detour to another one of his storage units, which had the added benefit of leading Lucifer on a merry goose chase looking for a new Hand of God, which Crowley does not possess, as far as he knows, Crowley has decided that now is not the time to quibble over trivialities. Crowley wants Lucifer dead or locked away, the Winchesters want their precious Castiel back. Their interests just happen to align, and it’s not as if this isn’t more or less how he became acquainted with Squirrel and Moose in the first place.  

If he could still experience cold the same as a human does, he suspects he would be shivering in the frosty March air as he walks up the steps to the entirely average house with a giant black car sitting in the driveway. With the toe of his shoe, he lifts the barest corner of the welcome mat, then frowns at the spray-painted Devil's Trap on the mat’s back. Careful not to cross over the lines, he sweeps the mat out of the way with a flick of his wrist, then steps forward to the doorbell, feeling rather pedestrian.

He must admit, he is curious what his reception will be.

The barrel of a shotgun is pretty much what he’d expected, and he smirks at his greeter, while heavy bootsteps thunder down the hall towards them.

“Sheriff Mills,” he drawls. “Good to see you again.”

 

Of course, in classic Winchester & Co. fashion, there is much bluster and to-do about his sudden arrival at the good sheriff’s home. Sam has to practically restrain Jody from lashing out, an effort that Crowley watches with an amused smirk. Not that he entirely blames her: he did try to kill her while under the pretense of a blind date the last time they met. Apparently, she still holds a grudge.

Then again, the two teen girls looking wide-eyed at the drama unfolding are the only ones in the room Crowley _hasn’t_ tried to kill. It’s all in good fun.

“Would this help?” Crowley sighs after a moment, snapping to make the welcome mat fly into the house through the still open door, then making it lie upside down before his feet. With exaggerated dramatics, he steps inside the Devil’s Trap, and gives a small bow to complete the picture of absolute (if, admittedly, sardonic) deference. “There, you have me at your will. Now can we conspire?”

“What do you want, Crowley?” Dean asks at the same time that Jody snarls, “He’s not staying here. I want him out of my house.”

“Sheriff Mills—Jody, if I may—it was nothing personal. And I think we have bigger fish to fry. Bygones, et cetera,” he finishes with an (almost) apologetic and dismissive wave of a hand. Jody looks about ready to explode, but he ignores her in favor of studying the two girls. Nodding in the direction of the blonde, who has just closed the front door, he comments, “The vessel’s daughter, am I right? Perfect.”

In a move that surprises exactly no one, Dean steps protectively in front of the girl, squaring his shoulders in preparation for a fight. Sam tightens his grip on the sheriff’s arm.

“You stay away from her,” Dean threatens.

“Well, it would be a bloody shame if I did, seeing as I thought she might be helpful in kicking Lucifer to the curb and getting your dear sweet Castiel back.”

“You’re not going to use Claire,” Jody declares, and Sam doesn’t even bother to hold her back any more, his expression clouding with anger.

"Don't worry, there's a spot on the team for everyone." With a roll of his eyes, Crowley reaches into his jacket pocket and removes a battered, leather-bound book, the fruit of his trip to Save Yourself Storage Units. He tosses it to Moose, figuring if anyone in this party, other than himself, has any chance of doing something useful with the text, it’ll be the giant of a Winchester. "It’s a grimoire with a focus on communication spells,” he explains. “It should be helpful reaching Feathers and getting him to spit out that dick of an archangel.”

“Where did you get this?” Sam asks, flipping through the book’s ancient pages.

“Must you always ask the least important questions?” Crowley sighs. “I have connections. And I had one particularly enterprising minion—shame he later defected during the Abaddon fiasco—who took an interest in modernizing magic and communication. How do you think I got cell service in Hell?”

Obviously, the thought had never crossed any of their minds, if their dumbstruck expressions are anything to go by. One word, however, seems to have piqued the interest of Claire, who says, “Hell? Who _are_ you?”

“Crowley, King of Hell, at your service. For the time being, at least.”

In all honesty, he’s a bit displeased she’s not more impressed, but considering she has probably already learned that her father’s vessel is being possessed by the Devil himself… Well, at least the look of shock on the other teen’s face balances the situation out.

“So, what, is this like the Apocalypse again? You show up, give us what we need, then smoke out of here and let us deal with Lucifer on our own?” Dean scoffs.

“Hardly. I want the bastard dead. It’s personal, and I have no intention of sitting back and watching you boys cock it up.” He turns in his limited sphere of space towards Sam, and flicks his finger, causing the pages of the grimoire to flip to a certain part. “It’s a spell for communicating with someone, no matter where they are or what might be blocking them. It’s powerful—hopefully powerful enough to bypass Lucifer.”

Jody crosses her arms and peers at Crowley. “Look, I’m not completely filled in on this whole Lucifer situation, but wouldn’t getting Cas to kick him out just mean you’d still have the Devil floating around out there?”

“Points for the lady,” Crowley acknowledges, inwardly enjoying the sheriff’s scowl at the moniker.

“How about we get Mommy Dearest to toss his ass back in the Cage?” Dean suggests, not even bothering to mask his dislike for Rowena. Crowley has always known there's a reason he likes the elder Winchester. But, there is a flaw in Squirrel's suggestion, and apparently news doesn't travel too quickly from Hell to the hunters.

“Rowena is dead.”

Sam looks up sharply from the book. “Lucifer?”

Crowley nods.

“Condolences?” Dean offers dryly, and Crowley doesn’t even bother to dignify it with a response.

“Well, you still have her soul, right?” Sam asks, the gears of the Moose’s brain almost audibly whirring. “I mean, she’s in Hell, isn’t she? We could still use her, if we got her a body—”

“Not ideal, but it’s possible,” Crowley allows, though the thought of dealing with a demonic version of the bitch is certainly not on his list of fun things to do. For the moment, he also decides not to mention that currently his access to Hell is, well, complicated, to say the least.

Claire, who has been watching the conversation with a mix of confusion, interest, and what Crowley assumes is frustration, finally snaps at Sam with a jut of her chin towards the book, “What’s this spell to talk to Cas?”

“Um,” Sam frowns, returning his attention to the text, clearly trying to translate the frankly (in Crowley’s most humble opinion) florid Latin on the fly. The King of Hell decides to spare the Moose the effort.

“Let’s just say that Huey Lewis would appreciate it. And no, I’m not talking about time travel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who has no idea what the Huey Lewis reference is about, [click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCkgYhtz64U)...or go watch Back to the Future. Or both. Both is good.


	9. Chapter 9

It takes only about half a second for Dean to get the Huey Lewis reference, but the other half of that second gets caught up in a brief flash of memory of an incredibly similar conversation he’d had with Adam during the Apocalypse, Round 1. ( _Christ_ , he thinks with regret; he has always held onto a small, probably naïve, hope that Adam got booted out and made it to Heaven when Cas Holy Oil Molotov’d Michael, and that Death had been yanking his chain about only getting to rescue one brother from the Cage.)

“‘The Power of Love?’” Dean scoffs, not liking for a second the obscenely delighted smirk on the demon’s face.

“Indeed,” Crowley confirms. “Hence why I need you mortals for this.”

“Why do you even want to help Cas?” Dean asks suspiciously.

“I don’t. Not particularly, at least. As far as I’m concerned, we can toss them both into the Cage and it wouldn’t make a spot of difference to me. But I don’t fancy my chances going up against Lucifer on my own, and I’m fairly confident that the only way to enlist your help is to ensure your boyfriend makes it out alive.”

On any other day, Dean would let the jab roll off him like water on a duck: it’s not the first time someone’s made a crack about him and Cas, and he doubts it’ll be the last. But, unfortunately, Crowley knows Dean too well. And the conversation he’d had with Jody in the kitchen had strayed dangerously close to feelings territory, which is not helpful in the moment, not when they have so much at stake.

Except that whatever this spell is, it sounds like it’s going to break through those walls, and—

"How goes the translating, Moose?” Crowley asks almost cheerfully from his spot inside the warding. Sam doesn’t answer right away, but Crowley doesn’t look particularly interested anymore. Instead, the demon surveys his confines, then looks up to Jody. “Is it too much to assume that we’ve moved past our differences and I can leave this Trap?”

“Far, far too much to assume,” Jody responds, her voice hard and her hand instinctively reaching towards Alex beside her, holding her arm for support and moving the girl behind her. In a very small, unoccupied part of Dean’s mind, he admires how relatively well the sheriff is holding it together with Crowley in her home.

“So, there’s some spell work and I think it’s talking about using the blood of four loves?” Sam says from the armchair where he’s parked himself with the book, a finger on the page.

Dean’s about to make a crack about Cas and orgies, but the memories of that Croatoan-riddled version of 2014 choke the words in his throat. Instead, it’s Alex who chimes in from her long silence with, “I don’t know what you guys get up to, but that sounds like TMI.”

Sam ignores this, and instead looks to Crowley for confirmation on a point. “Four loves, like from the Greek?”

“I thought it was in Latin,” Claire frowns from her position over Sam’s shoulder.

“It is, but I meant how the ancient Greeks believed there were different types of love."

“Yes, and the witch who wrote this spell took the idea for a spin,” Crowley adds. “I believe she mentions—and I’ll keep it in English for those with less talented tongues—” Dean wants to punch the lecherous smirk right off the demon’s face. “—family, friends, lovers, and universal love.”

“Universal love?” Claire asks.

“Like, someone who just generally and genuinely loves everyone,” Sam explains, and the brothers share a sad and silent conversation. A year ago, their first call would have been to a certain redhead whose picture you’d probably find under the definition of ‘bubbly’.

Clearing his throat, Dean ticks off a thumb and finger, waving that same hand between himself, Sam, and Claire. “Well, friends and family we got.”

“Castiel isn’t my family,” Claire scowls as if by reflex.

“Pretty sure there’s a Grumpy Cat upstairs that says different,” Alex mutters, earning herself a look of utter betrayal from Claire.

Dean manages to catch the girl’s eye and he gives her what he hopes is an understanding half-smile before carrying on with his list, holding up and wiggling two more fingers. “So who we gonna get for the last two?”

“Well, don’t put me down for universal,” Jody says. “That ship has long sailed...oh!”

“Don’t keep us in the dark, Sheriff,” Crowley drawls.

Jody ignores the demon and instead answers to Sam and Dean. “What about Donna? She knows the score with hunting and she’s the type that just wants to wrap the whole world up in a blanket and hug it.”

“Think she’d do it?” Sam nods thoughtfully.

“Only one way to find out,” Jody responds, holding up her phone.

“Alright, three down, one to go. And well, Meg’s dead, and the dude gave it up to a Reaper, so…” Dean says, trying to ignore the look on Crowley’s face, but the demon makes it impossible when he cuts in.

“Don’t be a twat, Dean. You’re the fourth. The _lover._ ” The demon’s voice is oily and smug.

All eyes snap to Crowley, then to Dean, whose hands ball at his sides.

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Dean growls, not really asking a question.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Crowley snarks, his voice rising into a near yell, “I only assumed that since we’re talking about the bloody _end of the world_ , we’d move past your _human_ hang ups and repression!”

Dean glares at Crowley, his blood boiling, something churning unpleasantly in his gut at Crowley’s emphasis on ‘human’, and the memories of his stint as a Knight of Hell by Crowley’s side clawing their way to the surface of Dean’s mind over the walls he’s built around them. Shame floods his cheeks red and he resolutely does not meet his brother’s eyes, knowing that Sam understands _exactly_ what Crowley is insinuating.

“Dean—” Sam starts in his ‘understanding’ voice.

“Sammy, if you say one more word, I’ll fucking kill you,” Dean warns lowly, and Sam’s mouth snaps shut. The last thing Dean wants to do is have a goddamn heart-to-heart with his brother, and definitely not in front of Jody, Alex, fucking Crowley, and Claire…

 _Shit. Claire_ , he thinks. He knows the girl’s blue eyes are on him, but he can’t meet them. As if finding out Lucifer is wearing her dad’s face isn’t enough, and now this...?

Every fiber in his being is screaming at him to leave the room, to storm out in anger, but he can’t. He can’t freak out now, not when this might be their best shot at getting Cas back. Instead, he bites back his anger and frustration and shame and fear, swallows thickly, then turns to Jody, trying not to squirm at the sympathetic look on her face.

“Call Donna,” he tells her, his voice hoarse and rough in his throat. With hard eyes and a set jaw, he addresses Crowley, hating himself for finding it easier to face the demon who knows too much than his own brother. “And what’re you going to do during all of this?”

For a moment, Dean thinks Crowley is about to continue his taunting—the bastard knows too well how to get under Dean’s skin—but instead, the demon just shrugs a shoulder. “We still need some way to get Lucifer back into his Cage. I’m sure a little derring-do on my part in this regard will be required.”

Dean shakes his head to clear it, then decides he’s done holding it together. Without Donna here, it’s not like there’s anything they can do at the moment. “I need a beer,” he announces and stalks off to the kitchen.

The jars and bottles on the door shelves of the fridge rattle, but unfortunately none of them contain alcohol. Well, the kind of alcohol he wants, that is. While he doesn’t mind wine, it’s just not going to cut it right now. He fishes his keys out of his pocket, realizing that a beer run is the perfect excuse to get out of here for a few minutes.

“You’re not taking off for good are you?”

Turning to find Claire, Dean finally meets her eyes. “No. Booze run.”

“Can I come?”

His first instinct is to say ‘no,’ but he’s the one who dragged the girl into this mess; he owes her _something_ , though he’s not entirely sure what. “I’m not buying you beer,” he warns.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, we’ve had this talk.”

“Damn straight.”

 

If there’s one thing Dean’s familiar with in Sioux Falls after many years of counting Bobby’s place as home base, it’s where all the liquor stores are. Despite the fact that there’s one only a few streets over from Jody’s, and it’s fairly new and modern, Dean opts for the townie hole-in-the-wall where the Singer name had been well known.

The ride over is almost oppressively quiet, and Dean blasts the music just to try and drown out the thoughts in his head.

“This crap is ancient,” Claire says after a few tracks of Zeppelin.

Dean almost doesn’t even have it in him to be indignant, but he looks over to Claire and sees an almost hopeful gleam in her eye.

“This is not crap. This is classic,” Dean counters. “Not like that pop crap today.”

Claire snorts. “Ten bucks says you’re a total Swiftie.”

Instead of a response, Dean just cranks up “Ramble On.”

 

“I bet they wouldn’t even card me here,” Claire observes as they make their way through a narrow aisle in the poorly lit store to the glass-doored coolers in the back. Dean gives her a look. “What? I’m not _going_ to.”

“Yeah, and like you’re not going to come back here later on your own,” Dean adds dryly. Claire at least has the decency not to deny it.

Six pack of a local brew in hand, Dean pays and they return to the car. But, instead of heading to Jody’s, Dean finds himself steering Baby over roads he hasn’t been down in years.

The salvage yard looks much the same as it always has, though with far more weeds among the stacks of broken cars. From this side of the house and in the dim moonlight, the fire damage doesn’t look as bad, but Dean still avoids looking too closely as he parks the Impala.

“What’s this place?”

“Belonged to an old friend. C’mon,” Dean says, grabbing the beer and heading to the front of Baby. Claire follows, joining him on the hood of the car, and taking the open beer he hands her. He knows he shouldn’t, but he feels too emotionally raw to care, and besides, the kid’s almost nineteen, in college, and a hunter. He seriously doubts this is her first beer. Even so, he warns, “Don’t tell Jody.”

Claire smirks. They sit there in silence for a few minutes, their breath clouding before them. His thoughts naturally drift to Bobby and his memories of this place, and he wonders what Bobby would've said about all this. Sonofabitch probably had this all figured out already and would have just smacked him up the side of the head and called him an idjit.

“You never met Bobby, did you?” Dean says at last. Claire shakes her head. “Crazy old bastard owned this place. Closest thing to a father me ‘n Sam had for years.”

“Oh.” Dean can feel the teen’s eyes studying him, and out of the corner of his own, he sees her pick at the label of her beer with a dark turquoise nail. “Dean...what Crowley said...is it true? You ‘n Castiel…?”

 _Fuck._ Even though he had known it was coming, that doesn’t make the conversation any easier.

"I dunno."

And it’s true, in so many ways. Dean doesn’t know, and he doesn’t dare to think about it or even hope. Not after all the crap they’ve been through, not after all the times Cas has left, not when there’s too much evil shit going on in the world to even dream of a little slice of that apple pie life, not when every other time he’s tried to hold on to someone he loves…

“He’s not my dad,” the teen finally says into the lengthening silence.

“Claire—”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” she adds. “I mean, like, it doesn’t bother me, if, you know… Cas isn’t Jimmy Novak.”

“Right.”

Dean takes a long pull from his bottle and wishes he’d gone for whiskey instead. Quietly, they finish their beers, tossing the empties into the car stacks and smiling slightly at the satisfying crash and crunch of shattering bottles against Detroit steel.


	10. Chapter 10

_Bzzzz Bzzzz Bzzzz Bzzzz_

“Donna.”

“Mrphrgmph.”

“Donna, hun, your phone’s ringing.”

“Brgphgrphm.”

“I agree. Doesn’t change the fact your phone’s still ringing.”

Despite herself, Donna smiles, even if her eyes take a few more seconds to blink open. She reluctantly snakes a hand out from under the blanket and rolls forward slightly on the couch to grab her phone from the coffee table. Another roll, and she’s back to leaning against Doug, whose feet are propped up on said coffee and whose left arm is temporarily resting along the top of the couch, waiting for Donna’s shoulder to return.

As she settles back in, Doug turns down the volume of the basketball game, and Donna finally notices the name on the screen: Jody Mills.

“Jody-o!” she answers cheerfully.

Unfortunately, that smile and cheer dampen somewhat when she hears what the other sheriff has to say.

 

Donna can’t say she really understands everything that Jody tells her—she knows she’s getting a very abbreviated version of the story—but all she needs to hear is that the Winchesters need her help saving a friend from Lucifer, yes _that_ Lucifer. And so with many apologies to Doug, she finds herself hurriedly packing up a bag to go to Sioux Falls.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Doug asks from the doorway to her bedroom.

Donna frowns, then puts on her best brave face. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ you to come, Doug. We’ll be ok.”

“Really?” Doug asks with a touch of sarcasm. From her ex-husband, Doug, the sarcasm would have been there to harm. From this Doug, though, it comes from a place of concern and worry. “Donna, I know there’s plenty you haven’t told me about all this weird supernatural stuff out there, but I’m pretty sure I heard the name Lucifer get tossed around a few times on that call.”

Donna purses her lips, unsure how to respond. Instead, she focuses on refolding her sweatpants.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she admits.

“You think I don’t think the same?” Doug says quietly.

“I know you do, Doug.” She gives up on packing neatly and tosses the rest of her clothing into the bag, yanking the zipper shut. Taking a deep breath, she crosses the room to Doug, raising herself up on tiptoes to kiss him, her nose wrinkling like it always does at the bristles of his moustache. “I promise I’ll stay as safe as I can.”

Doug grins, but Donna can’t miss the hint of sadness in his eyes. “Give ‘em hell.”

“You betcha,” she agrees as brightly as possible, while wondering just how literal that advice might end up being.

 

Several hours and too many gas-station cups of coffee later, Donna pulls into Jody’s house in the dark hours before dawn. The dark-haired girl that answers the door (Alex, Donna guesses, from the descriptions Jody’s given her) looks as exhausted as Donna feels. Inside the house, the tension is nearly palpable, but Jody immediately gets up and gives Donna a welcoming hug. Sam follows suit almost immediately, as does Dean, but the smile on the elder Winchester’s face seems like a mask. A well-constructed one, but a mask nonetheless.

The other two people in the room are unfamiliar to Donna, though she’s fairly certain the blonde girl is Claire. The dark haired man in the black suit looks utterly bored with the proceedings, and Donna frowns when she notices the wide berth everyone else is giving him.

“This is Alex and Claire,” Jody introduces the two girls.

“Good to meetcha,” Donna beams at the near identical waves from each teen.

“And don’t mind me,” the man says disdainfully. His raspy English accent takes her off-guard for a moment, as does the spray-painted pentagram he’s standing on, which Donna has just noticed. “The dear sheriff and I have too much history for me to warrant a proper introduction.”

“Fuck off, Crowley,” Dean growls.

“Would love to,” the man—Crowley, apparently—responds with an expansive wave of his hands to the symbols at his feet. “But alas…”

“What is he?” Donna asks Sam, who happens to be closest.

“That would be the King of Hell. A demon,” Sam answers with a mixture of harshness and resignation, which Donna knows is not directed at her.

“I’m _the_ demon, thank you very much."

“Jeez, the demon _king_?!” Donna exclaims, wide-eyed and looking around the room for someone else to tell her she heard wrong. Unfortunately, it seems her hearing is a-ok. “Wait, so that’s not the Devil, is it?”

The demon snorts derisively. “Lucifer’s a trumped-up git of an archangel who only _thinks_ he’s in charge of Hell. I'm nothing like him.”

“And you’re going to shut up and stay in that Devil’s Trap until you’re needed,” Jody glares at him.

“He’s helping us?” Donna asks dubiously.

“Unfortunately. He's a total dick,” Claire answers, looking at him with all the haughtiness of a teenager.

“Oh good, some of that Winchester bravado has rubbed off on you,” Crowley snarks back. “I was so worried the next generation would be lacking in that department.”

Glowering formidably, Dean takes a step towards the demon and menaces over the shorter man. “The only reason you’re not mainlining salted holy water right now is because we need you to save Cas and send Lucifer’s ass back to Hell. You say one more word to her…”

“Yes, yes, grievous bodily harm. I’ve heard this song before, Squirrel.”

Sam clears his throat, and the rest of the room turns to him expectantly. Instead of addressing all of them, however, he turns to Donna and asks, “Did Jody tell you what we’re trying to do?”

“Most of it,” she nods. “You need me to work a spell to contact your friend who’s been possessed by the Devil?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Jody confirms.

“So whadya need me for? It’s not like I’ve done this a whole ton,” she frowns.

Holding out an ancient and creepy looking book, open to a page written in what Donna guesses is Latin, Sam explains, “The spell needs blood from four different people, each representing a different type of love.”

“The witch stole the idea from the Greeks, apparently,” Alex adds, arms crossed around her middle as though thoroughly unimpressed with the lack of originality on this ancient witch’s part.

“But I don’t know your friend Cas...” Donna observes with her eyebrows knitted.

“Right, that’s why you’re Agape—basically, love for everyone,” Sam smiles.

“I’m too cynical to fit the bill,” Jody shrugs.

“That’s not true, Jody!” Donna defends, earning a small, but fond, chuckle from the other sheriff.

“Toldja. Hanscum’s good.”

Sam continues his explanation, pointing to himself first. “I’m standing in for Philia, brotherly love or friendship. Claire’s family, Storge…”

Before Donna can ask, Claire says, “My dad was Castiel’s vessel. My dad’s gone, but Cas still has his body. Sorta.”

“Vessel?”

“Oh, did they not tell you? Castiel is an angel.” Something about the smug look on Crowley’s face makes Donna’s skin crawl.

“Of course,” Donna blinks, trying to process all of this. “And Dean…?”

Dean’s eyes focus on a spot over her head. Whatever he was holding behind that mask peeks through a crack and the pieces slot together for Donna.

“Eros,” Sam finishes, but doesn't bother to translate, catching Donna's eye with an apologetic grimace.

From the quiet in the room, Donna suspects that the situation with Dean is rather new and uncomfortable for all parties involved, for whatever reason, and so she brushes past it the best she can, hands on her hips and with a nod of her head. “Okie dokie, so what do we do?”

 

Up until this point, Donna’s only exposure to the supernatural has been creature and ghost based, and so she’s impressed with the intricate symbols being chalked out on the floor of Jody’s basement. In the center lies a bowl, and several thick white candles surround it, set on intersecting lines in the overall chalk work. While Sam and Dean put the finishing touches on the spell, Donna helps Jody, Alex, and Claire bring down blankets and pillows.

“I’ll just stay here, then, shall I?” Crowley quips as they troop past him on their way to the cellar stairs. “I could use a chair.”

“You’ll live without,” is Jody’s terse reply.

Donna makes a mental note to ask what the story is between Crowley and Jody, although she has a feeling she won’t like what she hears. But hey, Jody went to bat for her against her dick of an ex, she’s only too happy to return the favor. Even if it is the _King of Hell._ And isn’t that a kick in the head. Who woulda thunk that this is what her day would turn out like?

Back in the basement, they lay out the blankets and pillows, close enough that they almost touch the bowl. Claire, Sam, Dean, and Donna each take a seat, while Jody and Alex stand off to the side.

“You’re gonna stay with me, right?” Donna asks the two of them, trying desperately to control the slight tremble in her lower lip.

“Of course,” Jody assures her.

Alex agrees with a nod, then shrugs with a half-smile. “Got nothing better to do. Plus, can’t let Claire have all the fun.”

“Yeah, so much fun,” Claire rolls her eyes.

It’s not that she’s afraid of the magic, but Donna knows that if she messes this up, the other three won’t make it back. While Sam, Dean, and Claire will go under once the spell starts, Donna will remain awake, but connected to all of them. Apparently, she is the tether, responsible with bringing them around again after no more than ten minutes.

_“It’s not safe for longer than that,” Sam had said._

_“Dude’s a stubborn sonofabitch,” Dean had argued. “What if it takes longer?”_

_“I dunno, Dean.”_

_“I’m not leaving him._ _We’re_ _not leaving him,” Dean had shot back. Sam had looked like he was about to argue, but Dean had pointed at him accusingly, saying, “Don’t you dare say some shit about how he doesn’t want to be saved or the greater good or whatever.”_

_“I wasn’t… Just… Never mind.”_

“We ready?” Dean passes a wicked looking knife to Sam, then adds in an admonishing tone, as if his brother is purposefully gumming up the works, “Cas is waiting for us.”

“I know, Dean.”

Donna’s heart flips at the undercurrent of sympathetic concern in Sam’s voice.

Pursing his lips, the younger Winchester holds his arm out over the bowl, which has a collection of various herbs and nasty looking things that Donna can’t identify in it. There are faint white lines on the inside of Sam’s forearm, and the ease with which he raises the knife and slices into the soft flesh makes Donna realize just how often these brothers bleed, literally, to save the world. The Latin rolls off his tongue, but the only word Donna catches is “Castiel”.

The knife gets passed to Claire, who repeats the process, reading her part of the spell from a phonetic transcription Sam had provided (Donna has a similar one on her own lap). Dean doesn’t read the spell, but the Latin sounds less natural on his tongue, and his voice drops into a near whisper on what Donna is pretty sure is the word for "love"... or maybe "heart", if her vague memories of high school Spanish are anything to go by. Romance languages, indeed.

Donna’s turn.

 _Well,_ she thinks, _this is gonna be a real doozy._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a two-for-one kinda night! Make sure you didn't miss the previous chapter! :)

_I don’t believe he knows anything, Lucifer._

**What other reason would he have to stay so loyal to that bottom-feeder pretender to the throne?**

_Pretender to the throne? You don’t even_ _like_ _Hell._

 **I like Crowley even less. And by right, Hell is mine. It should** **_all_ ** **be mine.**

_We shall see. But none of it will be yours without Amara gone._

**So let me carry out my work.**

 

Unwilling to witness the further torture of one of the few demons who has remained loyal to Crowley, Castiel retreats inside his mind. He finds himself doing this more and more often, preferring the relative quiet of his mental sanctuary to Lucifer’s daily goings-on.

If this situation had arisen even just five years ago, Castiel suspects this corner would resemble his favorite heaven, that cloudless Tuesday afternoon. Perfect for kite-flying. Well, Castiel would assume, never having flown a kite himself.

Instead, it resembles the bunker, with a few liberties. For one, there are windows looking out over a flower garden, and from his perch on a sill in the bunker’s library, Castiel traces the flight of a bee with his gaze.

Either Lucifer cannot pry his way in here, or he has chosen not to. In either case, Castiel does not for a second pretend to assume there is any kind of true privacy in here. But, it is still a welcome respite from the archangel. Castiel _knows_ that this is necessary, that they must do all they can to beat Amara, and that he is a (very) small price to pay for that victory, but it does not change the fact that Lucifer’s arrogance and pettiness is exhausting. Never mind the cold fear that creeps into Castiel’s gut whenever there seems to be the possibility that those he cares about are in danger of Lucifer’s wrath.

His skirmish with Lucifer for control to save Sam had only underscored how powerless he really is against his brother. Relinquishing that same control over his body to save Dean had been much easier. But then again, when has risking himself to save Dean—the Winchesters—ever not been his priority?

The bee makes several lazy circles around a brilliantly coral amaryllis before making its final descent. As it lands, Castiel’s ears perk up suddenly, hearing faint voices down the hallway of the bunker. Frowning, Castiel rises, then cautiously follows the sounds, his footfalls silent on the tiles and stones.

While the real bunker has many more bedrooms in its dormitory, Castiel’s version only has two, though he has never entered the one he thinks of as Sam’s. Today, though, a third door stands at the end of the hallway, incongruously bright white and homey looking in the utilitarian bunker. Slowly, he approaches and cups an ear to the door.   

“Where the hell are we?”

Recognizing the voice, Castiel steps back in shock. _Claire? It can’t be. This must be one of Lucifer’s tricks,_ he thinks, shaking his head. But, intrigue wins out over paranoia, and he leans in again.

“—guessing this is Donna’s dream or something.”

_Sam._

“Who the fuck cares where _we_ are. Where the fuck is Cas? CAS! If you can hear us, get your feathery ass out here! CAS! Man, where are you?”

 _Dean._ Despite his concerns, the all-too familiar gruff mix of care and exasperation in Dean’s voice makes Cas grin broadly, more broadly than he has in a long, long time. Lucifer may be a good actor, but Cas doubts the archangel could so perfectly mimic those nuances. Without any further hesitation, he reaches for the pewter door handle and opens the door.

What he finds on the other side is not at all what he had expected. It looks like a suburban living room, mostly: an overstuffed leather couch with a navy blue and sea green afghan lain across the back, warm light yellow paint on the walls, a thick beige area rug that looks perfect for walking on barefoot. Inexplicably, however, there is also a wall of hunting equipment (the traditional kind) and police memorabilia, further decorated with several awards and medals, all of which hangs over a bakery dessert case.

But all of this is nothing compared to the three people standing before him. Tears prick his eyes, and he blinks them quickly. Sam is already approaching him, being the nearest to the door where Castiel entered. The man’s arms are wide, and Castiel finds himself quickly engulfed and released with two pats on the back.

“Cas, man. Good to see you.”

“And you, Sam.”

Dean’s hug lasts perhaps a few seconds longer than what Cas has learned is socially acceptable, and yet it seems far, far too short. Uncurling his hand from where it had gripped the back of Cas’ coat, Dean, too, claps him on the back and clears his throat.

“Hey, Cas,” is all the hunter manages, his voice tight with emotion.

“Hello, Dean.” For whatever reason, the simple phrase has become a touchstone between them, and Dean’s eyes brighten at it. A lump forms in Cas’ throat.

Dean steps back, turning a quarter to let Cas see Claire. The girl is chewing her bottom lip, her blue eyes are wide, studying him.

“Claire,” he says softly, unsure how to, or if to, approach her. He’s never quite known where he stands with the teen. But, Claire takes the decision off of his hands, suddenly stepping forward and throwing her arms around his middle, not at all unlike when they last saw each other before the taxi bore her away to Jody’s. The embrace is at once hesitant and fierce, and he closes his eyes as he lowers his cheek to the top of her head.

“What are you all doing here?” he asks once he and Claire separate.

“Well, at the risk of sounding like a fucking fairy tale, we’re here to rescue you,” Dean declares.

Of course. Cas’ heart sinks, and he looks to the floor. Unbidden, a washed-out forest surfaces in his mind’s eye.

_“Let me bottom-line it for you. I’m not leaving here without you. Understand?”_

How can Castiel explain this, that he needs to do this?

“I can’t leave, Dean. If I leave, then Amara will destroy everything, and if Lucifer is our only chance, I—”

“That’s bullshit, Cas, and you know it.”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, holding up a hand. Dean runs his own over his jaw, then waves it to his brother, giving him the floor. “Look, Cas. I know you think you’re doing the right thing. But Lucifer is _not_ the answer.”

Drawing himself up, Castiel accuses, “And yet you’re the one who went to the Cage in the first place.”

Sam’s shoulders slump. “Yeah, but only because I thought _God_ was sending me there. But it was Lucifer sending me visions, and I told him ‘no’ for a reason. What happens when Amara is beaten? What do you think Lucifer’s going to do to the Earth?”

“It’s a risk we have to take. We’ve stopped Lucifer before, we can stop him again.”

“What do you mean ‘we’?” Claire says quietly, peering at Castiel. “Lucifer’s not going to give you back.” A beat. “You didn’t give my dad back.”

The words hit Castiel in a crushing blow and his eyes fall, unfocused, on a small and colorful painting of a rural landscape on the wall behind the girl.

“I know,” he admits. “Perhaps it is only fair, then.”

“Fair for who?!” Claire’s voice cracks on the last syllable. “Don’t I…” Whatever the teen was going to say washes away like the tear she surreptitiously swipes at with the cuff of her sleeve. “You know what? Screw you, Cas.”

“Hey,” Dean says both firmly and gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. Remarkably, from Castiel’s perspective, the girl doesn’t jerk away, but instead seems grounded by the contact. Once Claire takes a steadying breath, Dean rounds on Cas. “Don’t you get it? We need you back, man.”

“For what? With my Grace still in repair, I’m virtually powerless, I could barely leave the bunker for weeks without having a panic attack—” The last admission seems to shock Dean, and Cas realizes just how little they actually communicate. He sighs. “This is the only way. The only way I can be useful.”

“Cas…” Dean’s eyes flick towards Sam, who nods once. Swallowing, Dean resumes, “Cas, that’s not why we need—want—you back.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Cas, you’re our friend. Our family,” Sam says. At the word ‘family’, Castiel looks to Claire who breathes deeply once, then nods.

His eyes travel to Dean, whose pinched expression telegraphs the internal war he’s fighting. Finally, the hunter says, “Fuck your powers, dude. We just want you back. _I_ want you back. ‘Cause you’re you. Not because you got mojo or whatever.”

“Dean, I—”

“Shit, Cas, don’t make me say it.” Dean paces a step, then back. He looks to Cas, pleading with his eyes. “Remember the crypt? What broke Naomi’s hold on you? I know you know what it was. I know you know what I meant. And if you fucking think for a second that the reason I wanted to get you out of Purgatory was because you’re _useful_ —”   

The pause, while brief, is deafening.

“Cas, please. Come home.”

Like a dam breaking, the emotions Cas has held back for so long rush out, flooding him until he feels like he can’t breath (not that he needs to). They want him to come _home._

His family.

His friends.

His—

Castiel may be an Angel of the Lord, a creature of love, but God’s love is nothing compared to the fierceness, the passion, the strength of what humans feel.

It’s overwhelming.

It’s terrifying.

It’s wonderful.

“Alright,” he says at last, his voice somehow lower and raspier than usual. But a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

Dean reaches out a hand towards Cas’ arm, hesitantly, as if unsure it’s allowed. In an unconscious mimicry of Claire, Cas simply pushes forward, encircling the man with his arms and burying his face in the tough canvas on Dean’s shoulder.

When they release each other and step back, Cas next finds a smaller hand in his own; Claire squeezes gently, then lets go. Encouraged by the small gesture, Cas begins to mentally shore himself up, to prepare for ejecting Lucifer from his body.

But an unpleasant thought occurs to him.

“I can’t get rid of Lucifer,” he says, but kicks himself when he sees Dean’s face fall. “No, I mean, if I do it now, he’ll be free, and—”

“Don’t worry, we have a plan,” Sam interrupts.

“What is it?”

Dean looks guiltily between his brother and Claire, then answers cryptically, “Well, you ain’t gonna like it.”

Knowing how well many of the Winchesters’ plans go, Cas can only imagine what this can mean.


	12. Chapter 12

Technically, Crowley could stand exactly where he is for the rest of eternity and be just fine. That does not mean he wants to by any means. The minutes tick slowly by, his only company the sounds of Latin chanting from the basement, and the distant barks of a neighbor’s dog as the early morning sun starts to peek through the windows.

Eventually, more chanting from only one voice, some exclaims and conversation, and then footsteps on the stairs break his boredom. Claire and Sam emerge first, then Dean. Finally, his favorite sheriff appears, supporting the other sheriff between her and the dark haired teen. Where Claire, Sam, and Dean look emotionally wrung out, Donna looks physically exhausted.

He probably should have mentioned that the tether in the spell would be at risk for having her lifeforce drained out with the effort of keeping the other three alive and then pulling them back. Then again, the Winchesters should really know by now to read the fine print.

“So, was your touching reunion everything you hoped for and more?” he greets them, particularly eyeing Dean. The hunter, however, ignores him, and simply crosses the room to kneel at the edges of the welcome mat.

“Abandoned warehouse on Industrial Drive in Rock Springs, Wyoming,” is all that Dean says, letting a knife hover over the painted edge of the Devil’s Trap.

Anticipating the sure-to-be thrilling and highly intellectual threat about to come from the eldest Winchester, Crowley turns the tables. “I do hope you realize the inordinate amount of trust I’m putting in you. I’ve grown fond of this body, and the suit is new.”

“We’ll keep up our end,” Sam replies.

“I’ve been burned by you Winchesters before.”

“That street goes two ways, Crowley,” Dean retorts, but he bends and scrapes at the mat with the knife’s edge, flecks of orange paint slowly chipping off.

“Just cut the damn rug,” Jody advises from where she has just deposited Donna on the couch. “It’s not expensive.”

Grunting, Dean does just that, and Crowley straightens, enjoying the immediate freedom like a breath of fresh air.

“See you in Hell.” And with that, he lets his blood-red soul smoke out of his body.

 

Traveling in this form is much slower than the teleporting he can do with his body, but it still doesn’t take him very long to reach his destination. The warehouse is just as cliché as he would expect—a crumbling blight on the landscape—and the scene on the third floor is hardly unfamiliar to him.

What is unexpected, though, is the victim of Lucifer’s torture. Grayvik, Crowley believes is the demon’s name. If he were human, Crowley might have been touched by the dedication and loyalty of his erstwhile minion, who gaspingly reiterates that he doesn’t know where Crowley is, while Lucifer, almost lovingly, draws an angel blade over the flesh of the demon’s exposed chest.

“For some reason, I just don’t believe you,” Lucifer taunts, and even though there is no love lost between him and Castiel, Crowley finds that watching the Devil twist the usually stoic seraph’s features is unpleasant. Then again, it could just be the memories of the bloody dog cage and that horrendous Hawaiian shirt that make Crowley seeth.

Grayvik cries out as the silver blade bites into his flesh again, but his eyes then widen when they see Crowley by the ceiling. Lucifer, sensing the distraction, turns, eyes narrowing, but not before plunging the blade deep into the demon’s heart. _Shame_ , Crowley thinks.

“Well, well, what have we here,” the archangel sing-songs, but before he can do much more, the entire demeanor of the face shifts.

The gravelly voice that emerges from that same mouth is taut and desperate. “Crowley, now!”

Not that Crowley really needs an invitation; he rushes forward to join the party.

 

Crowley barely registers his surroundings as a loose approximation of the Men of Letters bunker kitchen, as the struggle between the angels is already in full swing.

Even though he knows that Lucifer’s true form is far more than he can comprehend, this reduced version of him is still impressive. From Rowena’s fangirlish comments about Lucifer, Crowley had deduced that to humans, the archangel had appeared in human form in Hell—likely in the guise of one of his vessels. To Crowley, however, both then and now, the Devil looks like a vaguely humanoid shape, bright gold and blue light flickering and flashing, with wings of that same light that span so wide they’re almost impossible to take in all at once. Although he had derisively told his mother to stop drooling, Crowley must admit that in that moment in Hell, he had understood why the archangel is named for the morning star.

Castiel, interestingly, but not surprisingly, looks entirely human and exactly like his vessel. A quick look down confirms to Crowley that he, too, has taken on his usual human form, although if he regards himself askance, his edges fade into smoky red.

Absently, Crowley can feel Castiel’s body fall to the floor of the warehouse, but the action does nothing to disrupt the angels’ battle for power and control. A hard hit knocks Castiel against a metal counter, and the seraph slumps to the ground. His lip is bloody, but his eyes flash Grace-blue as he forces himself up to take on Lucifer again.

The archangel takes the momentary break in the fight to consider Crowley’s arrival.

“Aw, Doggy, did you feel lonely and lost without your master?” he sneers.

“Hardly.”

“Castiel,” Lucifer tsks, all while letting his eyes, dark blue—almost black—orbs of light, rove between them. “First humans, and now your newest ally is this piece of filth? And I thought I had claimed the title of the fallen one.”

For some reason, that spurs Castiel to action again, and Crowley charges towards the archangel as well. Castiel reaches Lucifer first, and manages to knock him slightly off balance before being thrown off again. Crowley takes the opening and half-tackles Lucifer into the table, although the archangel lands several punches on the demon’s jaw. It’s nearly impossible to find a good grip on a being of light, but Crowley manages take hold of Lucifer’s arm, pinning it down against the tabletop just as Castiel rejoins the fray, grabbing hold of the opposite limb.

Momentarily arrested, Lucifer thrashes, nearly bucking them both to the ground. Castiel’s expression contracts to one of deep concentration, and immediately their surroundings change, flashing in a whirlwind of color and images until stopping in a dark room that is all too familiar to Crowley.

The bunker dungeon.

They land in the center, although instead of a Devil’s Trap there, the room is warded in Enochian sigils. Somehow, manacles appear beside both Crowley and Castiel, which they grab for instantly. Lucifer’s Grace burns against Crowley’s grip, and he nearly releases the archangel, who presses the advantage by wresting his arm free. Lucifer wrenches himself free of Castiel, as well, who lands on the hard concrete next to Crowley. But the shining form is stopped abruptly, and the archangel lets out an inhuman roar at the discovery of the manacle Castiel managed to get on.

Together, demon and seraph scuffle back, eyes never leaving the enraged being before them.

“Will it hold?” Crowley asks.

“It should,” Castiel nods, then turns to the demon. “I—thank you.”

“Don’t get maudlin.”

“This won’t hold me forever,” Lucifer calls over from his prison. “And how do you plan on defeating Amara? The world will burn, Castiel.”

But the seraph ignores his brother, and instead stalks towards the exit of the dungeon. Crowley revels in the image of a chained Lucifer for a moment.

“Doggy just made you his bitch.”

Sauntering after Castiel, Crowley lets the heavy steel doors slam shut behind him.

“A dungeon, eh, Castiel?” Crowley teases, brushing a hand against another set of manacles hanging just outside the doors. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

In exasperation, Castiel simply sighs and says, “We don’t have time for this.” A pause. “Dean, Sam, and Claire…?”

“Yes, they made it back, safe and sound. Now we just need them to not fuck up their half of the plan.”

“They'll come through.” The conviction with which the angel says those simple words is almost enough to convince Crowley on principle. Almost.

“Right, well, shall we?”

And so begins the acting job of Crowley’s life.

 

Really? This is your vessel?

_It_ _was_ _a vessel, and Jimmy Novak was a good man. And despite all current evidence to the contrary, this body is mine and mine alone now._

Hm. Well, to each his own...or Dean’s own.

_Enough, Crowley._

Love you, too, darling.

 

Even though Crowley much prefers being Earthside, being able to return to Hell, his domain, with such ease is practically rejuvenating, even if he has to act like the world’s biggest celestial dick. As he moves through the halls, descending further and further, he notes which of his minions greet who they suppose is Lucifer with reverence, and which seem to do so only out of obligation. He is mildly consoled that it seems to be a fairly even split, despite what Simmons had said about the morale and loyalties of demonkind.

 

_Lucifer walks more casually, more upbeat. You saunter._

And why would I take acting advice from the angel with a permanent stick up his arse?

_Because that angel has been in Lucifer’s head for weeks._

Stop bloody backseat driving or I’ll smoke out of here and let you deal with your obnoxious git of a brother on your own.

 

At last he reaches his destination, stepping into a dark cell with only two dim torches for light. Against the back wall is a rack, on which a victim writhes with pain. The torturer—a novice, Crowley assumes, judging from her technique—steps back when her boss enters, knife hanging loosely in her hands.

“Leave us,” Crowley commands, pitching his voice into the register Lucifer seems to prefer. Regardless of its realism, the demon nods once, then scurries from the room.

On the rack, the soul opens her eyes, then begins to fight against the restraints when she sees who has entered the room. The soul is still mostly human, but the edges drift off into black smoke, an effect that intensifies as she becomes more and more agitated.

“Lucifer,” she snarls. But after a few fruitless seconds, the thrashing stops, and her eyes narrow, as if finally comprehending what, or whom, it is that she’s seeing.

Grinning cruelly, Crowley steps forward. “Mother, what black eyes you have.”

Rowena’s red lips curl into a mirror of Crowley’s own. “All the better to find and kill you with, my dear.”

Crowley snorts. “Yes, well, we can get back to mutual death threats later. For now, I thought perhaps we might engage in a little family bonding. It’s a time honored tradition: revenge.”

The delight in Rowena’s black eyes is answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have family commitments all day tomorrow, so my next update will be on Sunday! Hope this will tide you over till then. :)


	13. Chapter 13

“See you in Hell.”

Red smoke erupts from Crowley’s mouth, rushing towards the door that Claire had made sure she opened once they had returned upstairs. The body crumples to the floor, and Sam wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“What the heck?!” Donna exclaims weakly from the couch, her eyes wide.

“More like, what the Hell,” Jody deadpans with a sigh.

“Don’t tell me you get used to this...Do you?” Donna wonders.

“Not really, no.”

Sam looks to Dean at this last part of the conversation between the two sheriffs, knowing they have both become way too used to this life. With mild grunts of effort, the brothers roll the demon’s body in a tarp, then carry him to the Impala’s trunk—which they had parked in the garage earlier for just this purpose. Somehow Sam thinks that the neighbors seeing a couple guys put a body in the trunk of a car in the sheriff’s driveway might not go over too well.  

“Know what’s sad?” Dean asks as he lets the trunk slam shut. “This isn’t even the first time we’ve had the fucking King of Hell in the trunk of our car.”

“Or the first, or second time, we’ve been to Hell.”

That sobers Dean up again, and he exhales a reluctant, “Yeah.”

Back in the house, Alex is bringing Donna a cup of tea, and Sam grimaces with guilt at the sight of the sheriff. Her face is gaunt and pale, and she shivers under the blanket Jody provides. They should have known that there would be side effects of the spell, and while Donna has earned her stripes as a hunter, she’s still mostly an innocent in all of this.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asks, looking between Jody, Donna, and Alex.

“Donna’ll be kicking butt again in no time,” Jody nods with a determined grin.

“I dunno about kicking butt anytime soon,” Donna admits. “But I’m thinkin’ I earned myself a day off from Crossfit.”

From Sam’s side, Dean replies with a half-smile, “More than earned it.”

Her eyes flick between Sam and Dean before resting mostly on Dean, and Sam takes the cue to walk away a few steps, but he still overhears her say, “You better bring this Cas back here when this is all done so I can meet him, ok? He better be worth it, mister.”

Her tone is light and teasing, but also genuine. Dean, however, responds in all seriousness, quietly, “He is.”

Inwardly, Sam applauds his brother. He’s honestly been waiting for Dean to freak the fuck out about the Cas situation or just go into super denial mode (also known as Dean’s Standard Operating Procedure). And if this doesn’t say something about how bad the situation is or how badly Dean wants Cas back, well, Sam thinks nothing will.

 

“I don’t like it,” Dean gripes from the driver’s seat.

Sam fights the urge to thunk his forehead against the dash (but he also doesn’t want to get yelled at by Dean for hitting Baby). In the long hours since they’ve left Sioux Falls, Dean and Claire have been at odds with each other. Personally, Sam’s on Dean’s side, but he also understands completely why Claire is insisting that she come with them. On the whole, though, he’s so damn tired of this argument.

“I’m not staying in the car like a forgotten pet,” Claire argues, glaring at the rearview mirror, where Dean is also staring.

“Claire, it’s _Hell_ ,” Sam tries to rationalize. “It’s not that we don’t trust you or think that you can’t hold your own, but this isn’t some place you want to go. It’s not some place _we_ want to go.”

Claire side-eyes him, but doesn’t respond to him. Sam sighs. Instead, the teen addresses Dean again. “You let me come when it was my mom.”

“That was different.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, well, I said I didn’t like it, not that I was stopping you,” Dean answers with finality, reaching forward to turn on the radio.

They make it through one side of an AC/DC tape before pulling into an alley off of Third and Pine in Kenesaw, Nebraska. Judging from the look in Dean’s eye, Sam guesses his brother is fighting with memories and guilt; he figures it’s a safe guess, if his own feelings are anything to go by.

“This is the entrance to Hell?” Claire asks with one eyebrow raised as she gets out of the car, surveying the old industrial buildings and littered alley.

“What were you expecting? Disney?” Dean says as he and Sam each grab hold of the tarp around Crowley’s body and carry it between them to the door. Claire just rolls her eyes and follows.

Two knocks on the door, then the slot window slides open before Sam’s fist comes down again. Two dark brown eyes peer out.

“Winchesters,” Billie greets them. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Yeah, we’re like the Spanish Inquisition,” Dean retorts. “You gonna let us in or do I have to sing that fucking song again?”

Merriment dances in the Reaper’s eyes, and Sam kind of wants to know what she made Dean sing to get into Hell last time. On the other hand, he’s heard Dean sing, so…

“Crowley isn’t in charge anymore. Or at least for now,” Bille answers. “And I don’t let just anyone in.”

“How’s this for a password?” Sam yanks the tarp back, exposing Crowley’s face. The slot window shuts, and the door opens.

“You said you wanted Crowley to owe you a favor,” Dean says as they push past Billie, tarp in tow, Claire trailing in behind. “Well, I’m pretty sure helping us help him get his throne back would do it.”

Billie doesn’t answer, but simply walks to the wall with warding on it. Her hand, which she lifts to the sigils, is graceful, but Sam knows better than to trust appearances. The Reaper has made it very clear that she isn’t in this to do them any favors. The warding glows, and a door opens, revealing dark stairs down.

She turns back to them. Her eyes are soulfully firm, steady in their gaze as they land on Claire. “She cannot go.”

“What?” the teen protests at the same time Dean asks, “Why the hell not?”

“You two have walked in death too often,” she answers, finally breaking her gaze and looking to them. “I won’t let the next generation think they have the same right. She stays in the land of the living, unless you want her to stay there forever.”

“Godfuckingdammit,” Dean curses, but Sam thinks he also sees a note of relief wash over his brother’s face.

“Sorry, Claire,” Sam sympathizes, knowing how angry he would be in her shoes. Addressing Billie he says, “You won’t hurt her.”

There is no question in his voice, but there is a hint of a threat.

Billie smiles, but it lacks any real warmth. “I don’t hate you, Sam. Any of you, for that matter. I just think you play a little too fast and loose with the natural order. But, no, I won’t harm her. It’s not her time.”

Sam regards the Reaper, but can find no lie in her expression.

“C’mon.” Sam moves towards the stairs, switching his grasp on the tarp so that he can carry the body behind him. His fingers are already aching at being clenched so tightly, but he ignores it the best he can. He’s three steps down when his movement is stopped, and he looks up to find that Dean hasn’t even taken a single step.

“Bring him back,” Claire says, her voice nearly breaking.

Dean swallows thickly, then nods once.

The air is ashy and sulphuric, and it mixes horribly with the bile rising in Sam’s throat. Neither of them speak as they go, down and down and down. A snippet of poetry from something he read a lifetime ago at Stanford suddenly comes to him: “The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned.” He doesn’t remember anything else from the poem, but he does wonder why, at least for the Winchesters and those they love, that descent is always so alluring.

After what seems like an eternity, they reach the bottom, and Sam finds himself oddly comforted to see Cas...or is it Crowley?...or Lucifer? waiting next to Rowena. The witch is flexing her fingers as she studies them with black eyes, as though she has never seen them before.

“I assure you, Rowena, nothing was done to your body. Lucifer didn’t even care enough to get rid of it.” The words may be coming out of Castiel’s body, but Sam can almost _hear_ the English accent of the demon king. Rowena’s eyes flick back to a more human color, and she grins wickedly at the brothers.

"Always a pleasure to see the Winchesters," she drawls. 

“Can’t you put her on a leash?” Dean growls, and Sam can’t help but wonder if it’s only Rowena he’s directing that anger at, or if knowing Crowley is the one in control of Cas’ body is what is truly upsetting him.

Crowley holds up an iron collar—the witch-catcher. “She’s aware of what the consequences of not playing along will be.”

“Oh yes, quite aware,” Rowena agrees in a tone that does little to convince Sam, and he accepts the witch-catcher from Crowley.

“Alright," Dean interrupts, "I’m tired of dragging your ass all over the place. Let’s go.” 

“And I’m just as happy to get out of _this_ ,” Crowley says with a disdainful wave of his hand over Cas’ body. “This is hardly the threesome I had in mind. Particularly since Castiel will not stop nattering on. Good luck with him, Squirrel.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t take the bait. The odd group begins the long, long walk to the ante-Cage in the far reaches of Hell, and when they finally arrive, Dean unceremoniously dumps his end of the tarped body roughly twenty feet from it; Sam follows suit.

“Careful with the merchandise,” Crowley warns.

“Likewise,” Sam answers, although he regrets the comparison of Castiel to a commodity when he catches Dean's expression. Reaching behind him, Sam draws a gun, specifically filled with anti-witch bullets. Dean takes Ruby’s knife from inside his jacket and hands it to him, giving Sam a significant look, clearly just as unsure as Sam as to which would work best on Rowena should the worst occur.

“You don’t go in there,” Dean tells him jerking his head towards the cage. “No matter what.”

“I know, Dean.”

He’ll admit, he’s torn about this part of the plan. He knows one of them has to go into the cage to help Cas and one has to stay and make sure Rowena doesn’t screw them over again. He also knows that putting him in a cage with the archangel who wants to posses him is a recipe for disaster, even though both brothers know Sam won’t say ‘yes.’ But why give Lucifer the temptation?

That being said, Sam feels rather useless letting his brother go in alone. Dean, who has always had his back, should have Sam watching his. Just like they have done so many times before. And besides, Cas is his friend, too, and he doesn’t have many left. He can only imagine the frustration Claire must be feeling right now.

But Cas probably needs Dean more.

Rowena goes to her post and begins assembling the ingredients for the spell. “I’m almost disappointed, Sam. No threats for me today?”

Sam holds up the gun. “Do I need any others?”

Rowena smirks. “We’ll see.”

With a flick of a hand and a muttered word, the warding around the cage flashes to power. Dean and Crowley march down to the cage, but Crowley stops and turns to face Sam. Except it’s not Crowley, this time.

“Sam,” Cas says. “If...if this doesn’t work, I just wanted to say—”

“No, man, don’t do this. It’s gonna work,” Sam shakes his head.

Cas’ eyes are sad, but he nods. “You’re a good man, and a good friend, Sam Winchester.”

“You, too, Cas.”

And with that, the angel turns and marches into the cage. Once they’re securely inside, Crowley’s red smoke erupts from Castiel’s mouth, rushing towards the discarded body. Crowley had been less than enthusiastic about having to ride Castiel all the way into Limbo, but they hadn’t been sure how long Cas would be able to fight Lucifer on his own; better to have the Devil in the cage first at least.

The King of Hell appears beside Sam, straightening the sleeves of his suit as though he’s just gone for a casual stroll. Together, they watch Dean and Cas, who are facing each other. From where they are, they can’t make out the words exchanged quietly between the two. Dean is gripping Cas by the shoulder, ducking his head slightly to meet Cas’ eyes as he talks to him.

“Think your brother will be able to get Castiel out of this pickle he’s gotten himself into?”

“I always bet on Dean.”

Before Crowley can comment, Castiel crashes to his knees.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Sam remembers is ["The Descent" by William Carlos Williams](http://genius.com/William-carlos-williams-the-descent-annotated).


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting two chapters at once -- make sure you didn't miss Ch 13!!

**Do you really expect me to leave quietly once you take these manacles off? I own you, Castiel.**

_You cannot stay, Lucifer. You will languish in the Cage for the rest of eternity._

**I’ve managed to escape twice now, and eternity is an awfully long time…**

[[Ok, Cas, you gotta get rid of him. You can do it. Lucifer’s not the way. Listen to Dean.]]

_I will evict you. You will go back to Hell._

**Maybe I’ll be able to convince Sam to let me in. Or perhaps that Claire. Not ideal, but she might do for a time.**

_You will do no such thing._

**Of course, this is assuming you are able to force me out. But you are weak, Castiel. You had to get a** **_demon_ ** **to help restrain me. The Winchesters know you’re weak. You know it, too. Why else would you have said ‘yes’ to me in the first place? You’re useless to the cause.**

((Castiel? Cas? I don’t know if you can hear me but… Just, come back, ok? I know I say you’re dorky and I said I didn’t need you around but, you know… Plus, I want a mini-golf rematch with Dean and I can’t kick his ass if he’s all moody and depressed. That’s just mean. And I dunno, you could come, too? You’d probably suck at it, unless they play a lotta golf upstairs. No angel powers to cheat, though. Anyway...yeah, I’m sorry, I’m rambling. This bitch of a gatekeeper or whatever wouldn’t let me go with the guys to get you. So, uh, please. Come back?))

**You seem distracted, Castiel. Gotta say, this doesn’t bode well for you…**

_Once again, your arrogance and your underestimation of the humans will be your downfall. Good bye, brother._

“C’mon, Cas! CAS! Listen to _me_ , you sonofabitch, not whatever bullshit Lucifer’s saying! Kick that asshole out! Come back to me, man…”


	15. Chapter 15

The iron bars loom up as he and Crowley approach, and Dean fights the urge to distance himself even further from the demon masquerading as his...friend. Except that was the whole point, now, wasn’t it? Cas isn’t just his friend, hasn’t been for a long time, but still—

Crowley slows and stops, and the blue eyes widen slightly. Not Crowley. Dean’s heart thuds in his chest as he sees Cas return.

“Sam,” Cas says, turning to face where they have just come from. “If...if this doesn’t work, I just wanted to say—”

“No, man, don’t do this. It’s gonna work.”

“You’re a good man, and a good friend, Sam Winchester.”

“You, too, Cas.”

Dean puts a hand between Cas’ shoulder blades for just a moment, and they resume their march to the cage. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Cas, can you stay in control? It’s weird as fuck talking to Crowley like this. I can’t do it.”

“Yes, I can try.”

But then the silence grows heavy with the enormity of what they are about to do. All the ways it can go wrong. All the ways it can go right...

“Guess it’s my turn to pull your ass out of Hell,” Dean jokes feebly, but nonetheless it elicits crinkles at the edges of the angel’s eyes.

“I’m glad you’re here with me for this, Dean.”

“Yeah, alright, Frodo. Just don’t call me Sam.”

Cas looks to Dean, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, then he regards the cage. “I suppose this is the end of all things.”

“No, it ain’t, Cas. Not by a fucking longshot.”

Even without Lucifer present—yet—the cage is oppressive and seems to narrow in on them, ready to crush them. _Like the fucking trash compactor_ , Dean thinks, oddly comforted and grounded by the cinematic touchstone. He sucks in a deep breath, nearly choking on the tang of sulfur and smoke and ash. Memories of his forty years in Hell, of Alistair’s knife, of torturing souls, claw at the corners of Dean’s memory.

“Dean?”

Giving a small, clearing shake of the head, he answers, “Yeah, man, I’m good. You ready?”

Cas doesn’t even get a chance to answer before Crowley smokes out of the body, and Dean grasps him by the shoulder to keep him steady. The angel’s expression is pinched and pained in the aftermath, his eyes unfocused.

“Cas?! Keep it together, Cas!”

“I hear you, Dean. He won’t...he says...” Cas’ body suddenly shakes and seizes, and he collapses to the floor in a heap, almost wrenching Dean down with him by the hand still wound in the trenchcoat’s shoulder.

“C’mon, Cas! CAS! Listen to _me_ you, you sonofabitch, not whatever bullshit Lucifer’s saying! Kick that asshole out! Come back to me, man...”

“Dean Winchester.” The taunting drawl coming out of Cas’ mouth makes Dean’s stomach sink and heave all at once. “Did you bring your brother along for the ride? Although, I have grown to really like Castiel. His body, at least. Not my true vessel, but a vessel assembled solely for an angel? It has its perks.”

“You get out of Cas, you sick fuck,” Dean growls, but not before Lucifer shoves him away. White spots dance in Dean’s vision as his head connects with the bars of the cage and he sinks to the floor. Lucifer grabs him by the lapel of his jacket, hauling him up. The hate is so evident in those blue eyes that they barely look familiar, and the twist of those lips is so joyfully cruel that Dean wonders how he ever could have mistaken this for Cas.

“Is that Rowena I see out there?” Lucifer smirks. “Cute.”

“She’ll send your ass back to the real Cage.”

“Right, because you’re all such good friends now, I’m sure.”

“Fuck you.”

“Always the witty one, weren’t you, Dean?”

Lucifer leans back slightly, and Dean knows what comes next, before the hand starts to clench and raise. Stull, the crypt, Rowena’s spell... And that’s just when he’s been on the receiving end. It doesn’t matter that the bunker library looks just as it always did before the Stynes invaded; Dean can still see Cas’ blood...

He knows this is going to hurt, but fuck Lucifer if the bastard thinks Dean Winchester isn’t gonna go down looking him in the eye.

“Get. The fuck. Out. Of Cas,” he spits.

“I’m not sure Castiel can hear you right now.”

“Bullshit. He can hear me just fine, and you know it. He ain’t goin’ down without a fight.”

The first punch lands, hard, but Dean barely registers it, snapping his head back as soon as he can to stare into those blue eyes, looking for some sign of Cas.

“Cas, c’mon, it’s time to go home." He can taste copper in his mouth. "I need _you_. I need you to come home. We want you to come home.”

The arm raises again, but stops barely halfway back. The confident smirk slips from Lucifer’s face, and the eyes begin to glow blue and white. The grip on the lapel of Dean’s jacket loosens, and he slumps back a step, but not before throwing his arm over his eyes as Grace erupts from the body of Cas.

The light dims and Dean rushes forward to Cas, who is panting on the ground.

“Dean.”

“Cas! Hey, hey, you’re ok,” he exhales in reassurance, palming Cas’ cheek, letting his thumb graze the ridge just under the eye. There’s so much more he wants to say, so much more he wants to do. Cas’ hand grips his wrist, and Dean knows the fondness and relief in the angel’s face is likely mirrored in his own.

Until what feels like a boot connects with the side of Dean’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a much longer chapter, but I decided to split it to make space for what will become Ch. 16. Sooo I guess this'll just have to tide you over. :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I ask is that you trust me with this chapter.

Watching Lucifer, still in control of Castiel’s vessel, attack Dean had conflicted Rowena. Having no love for the Winchesters, she couldn’t care less to see the eldest be tossed against the iron bars, except that until the archangel is vessel-less, she can’t complete the spell and send him back to the real Cage. When the archangel’s bright Grace erupts from Castiel, her eyes narrow cruelly, and her hands flex in anticipation over the ingredients for the spell.

William Congreve probably never expected “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” to have such literal connotations.

She’d been foolish, even she will admit to herself. Momentarily caught up in the awesomeness, in all of its meanings, of _Lucifer_ , she’d been allured by that power, that absoluteness.

But if there is one thing that Rowena has learned, is that she needs no man (or angel). She heeds no master.

Speaking of…

To her right stands Sam, one eye trained on her, the other watching with his heart in his throat while his brother and best friend fight for their lives. As soon as Lucifer emerges, he turns to her, presumably, to order her to complete the spell before it’s too late.

“ _Permitte telum. Abi!_ ” she cries, and just like months before, Sam’s gun flies from his hand.

This time, however, the Winchester seems to have anticipated the act. _Perhaps they can learn,_ she thinks scornfully. Barely reacting to the loss of the gun, Sam charges at her, the demon-killing knife to her throat.

“Finish the spell!” 

The blade is tight against her skin, almost close enough to break it. Not that a small knick would matter to her, not anymore at least. 

In the distance, she can hear the thuds, crashes, and cries from the cage. A particularly loud curse of pain and surprise from Dean echoes in the vastness of Hell, and Sam involuntarily flinches at it.

Slowly, she draws up her eyes to the hunter’s face. “And what, pray tell, will I get in return? Once I send Lucifer back and release your brother and his angel? You’ll just let me walk away?”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“You seem to be confused about who has the power in this situation, dear. _Impetus bes—_ ”

Something clangs into Sam’s other hand, and over his too-tall shoulder, she can just barely see her son’s face. In one fell motion, the witch-catcher is around her neck.

“Bloody hell,” she snarls.

“Hold out your wrists,” Sam instructs, stepping back, but keeping the knife raised. Rowena complies, and her eyes flick black when she sees what Sam has pulled from the back pocket of his jeans: handcuffs, but with simple Devil’s Traps carved into each. The metal rings clack hard against the bones of her wrists. Unnecessarily, he explains, "Just in case."

“Now,” Crowley drawls, “get to work, Rowena.”

Despite the uncomfortable and degrading collar and cuffs, she relishes the flow of magic through her body as she begins to power the spell. She can feel it mingle with her soul, almost caressing the dark and twisted parts, like calling to like.

“ _Anan avar karvak!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I know this chapter is super short, but it's more of a cut-scene between Ch. 15 and Ch. 17. It's all necessary, though.)


	17. Chapter 17

If it weren’t for the frequent angel mojo healings, Dean’s brain would probably resemble those of the over-concussed football players on the news these days. And getting kicked in the head by an archangel certainly isn’t helping.

For better or for worse, his familiarity with the experience, plus the adrenaline of being in fucking Hell with Lucifer again, means that he is able to rouse himself from the floor of the cage rather quickly. Not that the scene that greets him is a welcome one.

Lucifer, once again in the form of his Apocalypse-era vessel, is circling Cas, looking entirely too much like a cat with a particularly entertaining mouse. Cas is still on his knees, the tips of the fingers of his left hand spread to provide some balance as he tries to keep himself from swaying. Despite his apparent physical weakness, his eyes are defiant and track Lucifer’s progress.

“You know, Castiel, I had thought about killing you—wiping out this miserable excuse for an angel. But, then I reconsidered.”

Lucifer crouches down, looking Castiel in the eye and placing a hand on his right shoulder, as if to comfort him. Something about the gesture triggers a memory in Dean’s mind: the day he’d found Cas (well, Lucifer, apparently), ransacking the bunker during the banshee case. He’d thought he’d told Cas all about Amara, and then the thing inside his friend had also touched his right shoulder. It had felt...wrong for some reason. A montage of all the times Cas, the real Cas, has done the same flashes through his mind, and as the final image slips into place—lifting a shirt sleeve in the mirror just after crawling out of his own grave—he understands: Cas _always_ reaches for his left shoulder, right where the handprint, long faded, had been.

Inwardly and absently, Dean snorts. Amara can say they’re bound all she wants. Cas got there first.

Oblivious to Dean’s thoughts, Lucifer carries on with his slow taunting of Cas. “I thought,” he says, “that if _I_ have to spend eternity in the Cage—assuming your little plan works—with only _Michael_ for company, and away from what I love, well, I should return the favor.”

Understanding widens Cas’ eyes, but before he can react, Lucifer throws a hand out in Dean’s direction, eliciting a shout of shocked pain and several choice cuss words as he lands. If he wasn’t starting to turn blue in the face, Dean thinks he might have rolled his eyes at the next clichéd attack: they _always_ go for the Darth Vader Force-choke.

Obviously not content with a rather impersonal use of Grace, Lucifer approaches Dean, almost lazy in his stride. The mojo choking Dean is instantly replaced by a strong hand, crushing his windpipe, slowly, oh so slowly.

In the corner of Dean’s eye, he sees Cas struggle up from the floor and rush at the archangel. The attack isn’t nearly enough to disable Lucifer or release Dean, but it provides enough of a distraction for Dean to chop down at the archangel’s elbow with one arm, jerking Lucifer’s face towards Dean’s own elbow, which connects with the nose. Clearly surprised, Lucifer drops his grip on Dean’s neck, then spins to counter Cas, throwing Cas to the floor again.

“You sonofabitch!” Dean growls, ducking his head to charge at the archangel, who looks simply amused by the oncoming hunter.

And that arrogant smirk is the last expression Dean sees on the Devil when Lucifer vanishes from sight in a spark of light.

Skidding to a halt, Dean blinks in surprise, looking wildly around the cage to see if the winged asshole has just flitted off to a different corner, ready to attack him again. Nothing.

Rowena has come through.

“Cas!” Dean exclaims, sinking to his own knees beside him, partly by choice, partly by the wobbliness of his legs as the adrenaline takes a fucking nose dive in his veins. With that adrenaline crash comes the start of a pounding headache and the shooting pain of various bruises. But none of that matters now.

“Dean,” Cas replies softly, reaching out a hand to Dean’s face before he can stop him. Dean leans slightly into the touch, as the hand cups his jaw and sends cool tendrils of Grace into him, relieving him of his aches and pains.

Without thinking about it, Dean covers Cas’ wrist with his own hand, preventing Cas from taking his hand back. Their gazes meet, and Dean sees the exhaustion, and relief, etched into those eyes and in the dark circles below them.

“You shouldna done that, Cas,” Dean says, one corner of his mouth turning up in fondness and admonishment. “You need your Grace. You look like crap.”

“I see no reason for both of us to look that way,” Cas responds, and Dean lets an honest-to-God (or whoever is running the show these days) _chuckle_ escape his lips, once again taken aback by Cas’ penchant for extremely dry humor. Cas’ eyes brighten at the sound, and Dean smiles to see it.

“Dean…” Cas begins again, and suddenly a knot forms in Dean’s gut at the angel’s cautious tone and how his hand finally falls from Dean’s jaw. “...did you really mean it? That you want…?”

“Every damn word, Cas.”

Cas is not typically one for grand expressions, but the smile that graces—no pun intended—his face is perhaps the biggest that Dean has ever seen.

“I would like that. I... _want_ that,” he confesses, as though testing the word out and finding he likes it. His eyes suddenly flick around the cage and the dark Hellscape surrounding them, and he huffs a laugh. “Why must you and I always begin in Hell, Dean?”

“What can I say? I’m a fucking romantic. Take ya to the nicest places,” Dean snarks, then grips Cas under the arm and starts hauling them both to their feet. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”  

With one of Cas’ arms over his shoulders, Dean moves them to the opening in the cage and back up the ramp to where Rowena and Crowley await. Sam, however, comes down to meet them. Cas manages to straighten himself enough to hold up to Sam’s hug, but his posture slumps again once he’s released. Sam puts out a steadying arm, and Cas grips his forearm for a moment, but Dean quickly resumes his position supporting Cas. Sam simply takes a step back with a look to Dean, who is inwardly thankful that Sam gets it.

As they reach Crowley and Rowena, Dean distantly notes the witch-catcher around Rowena’s neck and the way her eyes flick black as they study their limping approach. He finds he’s actually waiting for Crowley to make some sort of snarky or lewd comment, but instead the demon just nods once, a gesture Dean reciprocates. It's not really enough, but at least they both understand what's left unsaid.

Even so, Dean can’t help but quip, “What's the party line now? ‘Get the hell out of Hell?’”

Crowley scoffs haughtily, but with a hint of amusement. “Smarter than you look, Squirrel.”

And so, one step at a time, Dean, Sam, and Cas, ascend to Earth, to return home.


	18. Chapter 18

“My King, you’ve returned,” a charcoal-suited minion stammers as Crowley enters his throne room. The minion looks warily to his companions, and Crowley fights the urge not to torture and kill them just on principle. Perhaps later. For now, he has a kingdom to reclaim.

“And Lucifer…?” a demon with long grey hair, who looks like she would be more at home at a hippie commune, except for the smart pantsuit she’s wearing, asks cautiously.

“Back in the Cage,” Crowley informs them, settling himself on his throne, then flicking a few fingers inward to summon Rowena, who has been obediently trailing behind him, to stand to the right of the throne. “Spread the word: your King is back, and there will be retribution for those who betrayed him.”

The demons’ eyes widen, and one glare from Crowley scatters them to points unknown. Sighing, Crowley leans back on this throne.

“I think you can stop pretending, Rowena,” Crowley drawls.

Smirking, Rowena passes a hand over one cuff, muttering something quietly, then doing the same to the other. They snap open and clatter to the floor. Pale, thin fingers then reach around her neck to unfasten the clasp of the witch-catcher, which she tosses with some vehemence to the ground.

“You knew?” she asks.

“Suspected. Too human for the Devil’s Traps, too demon for the witch-catcher,” Crowley explains with a wave of his hand. “Besides, you knew the Winchesters would never believe that you wouldn’t try to double-cross them, and we both know that your defensive spell-work was slow. On purpose.”

“My boy always was a bright one,” Rowena crows with an evil grin.

“One doesn’t become King of Hell without being so,” Crowley nods. “So, what half-baked ideas does the half-baked demon have? I’ll admit, I’m somewhat surprised, given the blackness of your soul to begin with, that there’s still any trace of humanity. I really must find better torturers.”

Rowena’s eyes simply flick black and back again, and she doesn’t respond right away. At least, not to the question. “What do you want, Fergus?”

He doesn't even bother to correct her. Getting up, Crowley goes to the sideboard and pours himself a tumbler of Glencraig, momentarily grateful that Lucifer was too preoccupied with being a world-class dick and searching for a way to beat Amara to bother disturbing Crowley’s collection of scotch. 

“While I’m sure nothing would delight either of us more than to kill the other,” he says after a bracing mouthful of the whiskey, “it occurs to me that there might be a better use for you.”

“Use?” Rowena scorns. “You don’t  _ use _ me.”

“I’m nothing if not an opportunist,” Crowley continues, ignoring Rowena’s interruption. “And it also occurs to me that  _ you _ are the one who released the Darkness, even if unintentionally. You might have the power to lock her up again.”

“What, have you finally realized the Darkness is more than you can handle, dear?”

“I really don’t think that’s the card you should play, Mother.” 

The flush that stains Rowena’s cheeks is its own reward. But the demon witch recovers quickly, drawing up that old confidence and swagger. “It is possible I could find a way.”

“I thought so. And if not, well, let’s just say my captivity with Lucifer wasn’t entirely without its advantages.”

A calculating look narrows her eyes. “Lucifer found the answer.”

“Potential lead, nothing for certain.” He takes another sip from his glass, deciding for now to keep the Hand of God possibility quiet; the last thing he wants is the witch to have that kind of power. “But for now, Rowena, you have a solution to find, and I have a kingdom to restore.”

The silence of the throne room after Rowena disappears is vast, and Crowley drains the rest of his tumbler. 

Another day in Hell.


	19. Chapter 19

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”

Claire stops her pacing to give Billie, as she’s learned is the woman's name, a cold look. “It’s concrete.”

Billie shrugs, then returns to her comic or graphic novel or whatever it is. Claire can never keep them straight and she honestly wouldn’t even know there is a difference except that one of the somewhat tolerable kids in the group home had been very into...manga? In any case, she doesn’t resume pacing— _not_ because Billie said so—and regards the other woman (if she can be called that) carefully.

“How come a demon doesn’t want me to go into Hell anyway? Isn’t that kinda your whole deal?”

“I’m not a demon,” Billie says, almost surprised, and Claire kind of has to agree with that reaction: of course Sam and Dean didn’t tell her the whole story. Again. “I’m a Reaper.”

“Oh. So no black robe and whacking thing...the scythe or whatever?” she asks with far more bravado than she actually feels.

Billie gives her an amused raise of her eyebrow. “Some of us prefer the traditional look. I just keep my beliefs traditional.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What’s dead should stay dead.”

“Great.”

Pulling out her phone, she realizes two things: one, she needs to get a watch because this would be super inconvenient on a hunt, and two, it’s only been about five minutes since Dean and Sam dragged Crowley’s body down the stairs.

Rather than wearing that hole in the concrete, she throws herself into a rickety chair with a huff, mildly impressed it doesn’t collapse beneath her. She’s already prayed to Castiel once, although Lucifer probably caught that one, and so there’s literally nothing for her to do but wait.

Claire hates feeling useless.

She's half-tempted to try and hotwire the Impala and go for a spin, just to do _something_ other than sit around, but should Dean find out or anything happen to the car, she doesn’t want to test Billie’s earlier promise that it’s not her time to die.

Her fingers tap on the table until Billie arches her eyebrow again, and Claire stops.

“Why—” she begins, but her question gets cut off by the opening of the doorway to Hell and the emergence of Dean, Sam, and Castiel, looking all kinds of worse for wear, Cas particularly. Stunned, she blurts the first thing that pops into her mind. “That was fast.”

“Hell time,” Dean grunts, adjusting the angel’s arm across his shoulder. “Moves differently.”

But Claire’s no longer interested in the explanation as her eyes are completely fixed on Castiel, who has raised his head to meet her gaze. Carefully, he stands up on his own and looks at her, and she can’t decide whether she wants to hit him or hug him. He’s _not_ her father, never will be, and she knows he only went looking for her last year out of guilt, but after finding and losing her mother later, and after everything…

“Claire,” he says quietly. She takes a step forward, then punches him in the arm; he winces and sways. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“Damn right you did.”

He exhales sharply as she practically launches herself at him, and just for a moment, she doesn’t care that it’s not really her father hugging her back. Maybe they were right: Cas is family, in his own way.

“I heard you,” he whispers, and her heart clenches.

“I suck at praying,” she shrugs self-consciously as she pulls away. “But the offer still stands.”

Cas looks to her, then to Dean and Sam, who are simply watching them, then he says, with the barest hint of a cautious smile, “I’ll ‘take you up on it.’”

She can practically hear the air quotes. “Doof.”

“Alright, let’s get out of here,” Dean breaks in, before mock-saluting the Reaper. “Billie, always a pleasure.”

“Likewise, Dean,” she replies, her voice serene despite the quiet power within it.

Claire is only too happy to leave her company.

 

While the drive to Nebraska was mostly filled with tense outbursts of bickering—mostly between herself and Dean, she’ll admit—the ride back to Sioux Falls is far quieter and more peaceful. Cas is still making coma patients seem lively, and so he quickly falls asleep, head resting in the corner between the back of the seat and the window. Claire drifts in and out of Dean and Sam’s conversation, sometimes watching the flat landscape whip by, sometimes contributing to their discussion.

“So, Crowley’s got Rowena trapped again,” Dean comments at one point after they stop for gas.

“Yeah, wonder how long that’s gonna last,” Sam remarks with an undercurrent of sarcastic amusement. “What’re we gonna do when she breaks free?”

“Tomorrow’s problems, Sammy. Tomorrow’s problems.” Dean’s eyes flick up to the rearview mirror, which Claire swears they do every two minutes at least (she’s been keeping track). They land on Cas, of course, before they notice Claire watching and snap back to the road in front of them.

“We could use her,” Sam suggests. “She’s the one who worked the Mark of Cain spell.”

“‘Cause that worked out so well before,” Dean counters, but he sighs. “I dunno. We got jack on Amara, and bringing in Rowena—who's a frickin' demon now, don't forget—is probably just a recipe for disaster.”

“That’s kind of how we operate,” Sam deadpans. “Alright. Backburner for Rowena. Plus, we still haven’t exhausted the Hand of God stuff.”

“Yeah.” Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “But let’s just call this one a win, ok?”

Sam agrees, and Claire drifts out again as Dean turns up the music. Lifting Cas’ arm slightly, she leans in against him. He shifts, on the cusp of consciousness, drawing her in. He’s warm and smells earthy somehow, like what candle companies mean, but don’t really accomplish, when they say a scent is “clean air” or “spring breeze.” Her dad smelled like the mildly floral detergent her mom would buy, and like Old Spice deodorant. But Castiel isn’t Jimmy. He won’t ever be.

But she doesn’t need him to be.

The strains of classic rock, the hum of the engine, and whirring of tires over pavement mingle with the faint heartbeat in the angel’s chest, a heartbeat Claire didn’t even know he had. Together, the sounds lull her out of consciousness, and she dozes.

“—knew, didn’t you?” Dean’s voice is saying as she wakes, although she keeps her eyes shut, enjoying the dark for the time being.

“About what?” Sam asks.

“I dunno, you were going off about how we needed to find someone in the life or whatever a couple months ago. You knew. ‘Bout Cas...’n me.”

“Oh.” A pause. “No, I didn’t know. Suspected. Wondered.”

“Sure.”

“Charlie was pretty convinced though.” Even with her eyes closed, she can almost hear the grin in Sam’s voice.

“Yeah, well, Charlie knew a lot of things,” Dean grumbles sadly, but fondly. There’s another pause, and the silence stretches almost uncomfortably.

“You could’ve talked to me, you know.”

Dean doesn’t respond, at least not verbally, but Claire doesn’t risk opening her eyes and cluing them in to her presence. She’s pretty sure that Dean doesn’t even really want to have this conversation, even if he did bring it up, and she thinks she gets him well enough to know he’ll stop if he’s aware she’s listening.

“Well, Sammy,” Dean starts up the conversation again, with a shit-eating tone of voice, “guess you’re gonna have to play a little catch up here. Your turn to find someone in the life.”

"Maybe I did. I can’t call her, though.” The incredulous pause, on Dean’s end, almost makes Claire crack and ask “who is she?!” Sam apparently decides he can’t drag his brother along for too long, though, so he adds, “But I can text her.”

The answer must mean something to Dean, even if Claire remains clueless, because the elder brother only takes a beat before chucking Sam on the arm, judging by the sound, and replying, “Sammy, you sly dog. You never said anything.”

“We kinda had a lot on our plates, Dean.”

“Fair enough. Well, she’s good on a hunt.”

“That’s it? ‘She’s good on a hunt?’”

“What, that's high praise, Sammy. 'Sides, she'd be good for you." Claire can tell Dean is smiling smugly as he follows that with, "Aww, look at you: all grown up.”

“Could say the same about you, asshole.”

“Nope, that’s big brother privilege.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

The conversation peters off after that, and Claire decides it’s a good time sit up and stretch.

“Hey, Claire,” Sam says when he notices her move.

“Mornin’, or night, or whatever,” she yawns. “So, are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

“How about I pull over and you can walk?” Dean warns.

Sam just huffs a small laugh and tells her they’re about an hour away.

 

Jody’s house is dark, save for the light above the garage door, when they finally pull in. Castiel finally awakens, blearily, when the engine kills, and Dean immediately comes around to the back door to help him out. Claire barely has her key out to unlock the front door when Jody opens it, clad in black yoga pants and an over-sized grey t-shirt with Sioux Falls Police emblazoned on it in navy blue.

“Guessing it worked?” she asks quietly, ushering them in. “You guys ok?”

“Yeah, more or less,” Sam nods. “Jody, I hate to ask, but...”

“I figured you might need a place to crash,” Jody nods. “We moved Donna up to my room after you left, so I’ll probably just bunk with her. We got an air mattress and the couch—you boys’ll have to figure out how you want to work that.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, still leaning on Dean for support. “Truly, I—”

“Please, don’t worry about it,” Jody dismisses with a wave. “But let’s save the real introductions for when you’re not about to fall over, ok?”

Cas nods, as if unsure how to accept such generosity. Claire wants nothing more than to crawl into her bed and sleep for a day, but she’s probably in better shape than any of the guys right now.

“Cas should take my bed. I’ll sleep in Alex’s room,” Claire suggests, thinking that the giant circular chair there isn’t ideal, but it’s better than the floor.

Dean looks like he’s about to argue, but Castiel picks that moment to sway forward dangerously, and Sam has to throw out an arm to stop him. And so, Dean, also grabbing Cas’ upper arm, simply bites back his argument, nods, and leads the angel upstairs.

Claire follows them, quickly grabbing the first pair of pj pants and t-shirt she can find and ducking out of the room again so that the two of them can continue their bickering about why Cas should “take off the trenchcoat and sleep like a normal fucking person” even though he’s “an angel, so it doesn’t matter, Dean.” She doesn’t need to be there for that.

After changing in the bathroom, she slips into Alex’s room and surreptitiously takes the extra pillow from Alex’s bed. She’s about to snuggle up in the chair with the fleece blanket there when a grumpy, sleepy voice says from the bed, “Don’t be a weirdo,” and a hand clumsily smacks the empty half of the mattress.

Rolling her eyes, but not about to turn down an actual bed, Claire climbs under the covers.

“Thanks,” she whispers. As far as kinda-sisters go, Alex has her moments where she’s not that bad.

Alex grunts. “Just don’t fucking cuddle me.”

Yep, moments.

 

When Claire wakes again, she can’t tell if it’s just a grey, cloudy morning, or if it’s still very early. A look at Alex’s alarm clock, and the faint patter of misty rain on the window, confirms that it’s a little bit of both. On the way to the stairs, she catches a peek into her room through the cracked door.

Cas is under a blanket, but on top of the covers—and apparently Dean won the coat argument, judging from its presence draped over her desk chair. Dean is also on top of the covers, but blanket-less, fully clothed except for boots, and very asleep with his arms crossed over his chest. On his left side and facing Dean, Cas must be bare inches from the hunter, and his right hand rests softly on Dean’s upper arm.

Claire thinks this might be the most peaceful she’s ever seen either of them.

In the kitchen, she’s unsurprised to find Jody already up and making coffee, while Sam has car keys in his hand.

Claire frowns. “Leaving?”

“Going and grabbing everyone some breakfast,” he explains. “Least we can do.”

“Good, you boys are gonna eat me out of house and home otherwise,” Jody teases, but Claire knows, and she’s sure Sam does, too, that Jody doesn’t mean it at all.

“I’m pretty sure you mean Dean,” Sam counters.

“Uh huh. So that wasn’t you ready to go all Hunger Games over the mashed potatoes?”

Sam just grins and leaves, the Impala’s engine echoing in the quiet suburban street.

Jody crinks her neck, grimacing, then says ruefully, "Ended up on the couch, since Sam took the air mat. Donna kicks in her sleep." 

Claire smirks, then goes and pours herself a cup of coffee, acutely aware of Jody’s eyes watching her.

“You ok?” the sheriff asks from the table, where she has her own mug firmly planted in front of her.

Claire sits up opposite, takes a sip, then replies. “I think so.” She pauses, gathering her thoughts. “I felt so useless. I couldn’t go with them, I had to sit out the whole thing—”

“You didn’t sit out for the spell,” Jody reminds her. “Hell, me ‘n Alex felt pretty useless for that one.”

“Yeah, but Donna needed you,” Claire argues. “All I could do while Sam and Dean went to _Hell_ was sit around and pray.”

“Did it work?”

“Obviously: they got him back.”

“No,” Jody shakes her head. “Praying. Did it work?”

“I guess so. Cas said he could hear me.”

Jody reaches out a hand and covers Claire’s for a moment, squeezing gently. “Sometimes that’s the best help you can give.”

They drink their coffee quietly for a few moments, listening to the rain on the glass. Claire thinks about all that’s happened in the past few days—few years, even. She thinks about how angry she’d been at Castiel for making such a stupid decision, and while she still thinks it’s stupid, saying ‘yes’ to freaking _Lucifer_ , she thinks she finally understands why. She thinks about how her mom threw herself in front of that sword, how her mom hadn’t abandoned her, but had been hoping to bring their family together again. She thinks about what Dean told her almost year ago, that her father sacrificed himself to save the world. She thinks about why she said ‘yes’ to Castiel when she was twelve, sitting, tied up in that chair, helpless to save her parents.

“I think I’m going to go with them,” she blurts out, and the coffee mug stops half-way to Jody's mouth.

“I thought you might,” Jody admits quietly.

“I’m sorry. It’s not because of you. You and Alex are great and you helped me out and…” She takes a breath, somewhat relieved by the understanding look on Jody’s face. “I just can’t sit here and know how bad things are out there and not do anything,” she finishes. She lowers her eyes, studying the lines in the table’s boards. Looking up, she says, “But maybe I could come back? When it’s all over?”

Jody gives a smile, though Claire sees a touch of sadness behind it. “Come back forever, or come back just for the night. You’ll always have a home here, Claire. However long you need it.”

It’s as if someone has taken off the vice grip on her heart, and relief and gratitude floods through her. Dean was right: Jody has done more for her than she will ever know.

It’s weird. Over the last year, she’s always thought of this as “Jody’s house”, but now that she’s leaving, it feels more like home than it ever has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) If they spend five Earth-minutes in Hell, that means they spend over 10 hours in Hell. (I did the math out, then realized I probably could have Googled it. And then I Googled it, and yep, there are plenty of posts about Hell time in SPN.) Basically, I'm saying it takes a long friggin' time to get down those stairs and all the way to Limbo to the not-Cage. Either that, or because they're in Limbo, time stops? I dunno, interpret as you will.
> 
> 2) I know the middle is kind of Sam and Dean-heavy for a Claire chapter, but since they bring up some stuff from 11x04 "Baby", it seemed fitting having a third party observer again. Not that Claire is a car, but she kind of fulfilled the same role.
> 
> 3) I kind of really like the idea of Jody being Claire's Bobby, especially given Ch. 9 and the whole Sioux Falls parallel. I also just really love Jody.
> 
> 4) I couldn't help slipping in a little SamxEileen reference (aka. my Sam OTP).


	20. Chapter 20

Considering the number that Lucifer’s presence did on him, Cas is surprised that he wakes up before Dean, who has repeatedly said over the years that he only needs his four hours of sleep. He notes that one hand, which he remembers laying gently on Dean’s arm when he fell asleep, is clutching the olive green overshirt. Slowly, he releases the fabric and draws his hand back, unsure what the light of day will bring for him and Dean.

If there’s one thing that he has learned about Dean, it is that _this_ , whatever  _this_ is, won’t come easy to him.

Quietly, he eases himself off of the bed, moving cautiously so as not to disturb Dean. He eyes the trenchcoat on the chair, which he only removed because it had been easier than continuing to argue. But he feels incomplete without it, and so he slips the garment on, finding comfort in its familiar rustle and weight on his shoulders.

Dean’s right arm, the one Cas had been gripping, suddenly slips down off of his chest and hits the mattress with a soft _fwump_. The noise and action jerk the hunter awake, and his eyes dart around the room before finding Cas.

“You leaving?”

Years ago, Cas might have missed the frustration and sadness underneath the almost dismissive question. But, he is learning to speak Winchester, even if he thinks he still might have a long way to go.

“No, Dean. I just...wanted my coat.” He shrugs.

“Right,” Dean nods, ducking his eyes and rubbing the back of his neck. He plays off his obvious discomfort with an exaggerated yawn before regarding Cas again. “You look better.”

“I slept very well last night,” he replies, feeling encouraged by the answering small smile from Dean. “But I still don’t think I’m ‘a hundred percent.’”

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Dean replies, “Don’t worry. We’ll getcha back to the bunker and up and running in no time.”

“Of course.” Something flits across Dean’s face that Cas can’t decipher. “I think I hear people downstairs.”

“Good, I’m starving,” Dean nods, and they make their way to the hallway.

Cas can’t help notice how Dean’s hand lightly guides him on the small of his back, as though Cas wouldn’t be able to find the stairs, or needs a guard, or...is planning on flying away. Knowing that Dean has a legitimate claim about the latter, he leans backwards slightly into the touch, acknowledging and accepting its presence.

Just before they reach the last step, Dean stops Cas. “Fair warning: if you thought Charlie was perky, be prepared for Donna. And let’s just say Jody and Ellen would have been best friends.”

“I fail to see how that’s a warning. Charlie and Ellen were good people,” Cas puzzles.

But Dean doesn’t explain any further, just clapping Cas on the shoulder and entering the kitchen.

It turns out, perhaps Dean was right to warn him.

Immediately, Castiel realizes that the comparison to Charlie was an apt one, as Donna gets up from her half of a bagel and side of fruit salad to give Dean, and then Castiel, giant bear hugs. Despite the dark circles under her eyes, which Castiel knows are a result of the spell, even if he only got the barest explanation of its workings, Donna is cheerful and completely delightful...and a lot of energy.

“Dean,” she stage-whispers, “where’re the sign-ups for the guardian angels?”

“Sorry, I think all the good ones are taken,” Dean chuckles, and something in Cas’ chest expands and warms at that.

Donna laughs, then says to Castiel, “I was kinda expecting more wings and halos and sandals, you know?”

“Well, I could wear sandals if I chose to, and what humans have mistaken for halos are really just Grace. We do have wings, but they’re on a different plane of existence—”

“But their shadows are pretty fucking awesome,” Dean says around a mouthful of donut, snatched from a box on the kitchen table. Cas smiles, though sadly, wondering if Dean would still think the same if he could see their current tattered condition.

“Holy fudge! You’ve seen ‘em?” Donna asks before spinning to Castiel, wide-eyed. “I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam pipes up from the table. “If that kind of language was a smiting offense, Dean’d be a crater by now.”

Dean’s only response is to flip off Sam, a gesture that earns a stern look from Jody.

The rest of breakfast passes in a whirlwind of chatter, especially once Claire returns from the shower and Alex stumbles in, the two girls bantering and bickering in a way that rather reminds Castiel of Dean and Sam. Castiel tries to keep up with the conversation, sipping at his coffee and trying not to grimace at the taste of molecules, but he mostly just listens and thinks and offers short answers when prompted.

When the meal starts to disperse, Castiel retreats to the back door, desperately seeking the outdoors. The morning is damp and grey, but the scents of the earth and coming spring fill Castiel’s nostrils, and he turns his face up to the sky with his eyes closed, letting the mist grace him.

He had chastised Lucifer for “wasting time” in a park when they had more pressing matters—Amara, namely. Of course, Lucifer had also blasted a brother into oblivion with a snap of his fingers in that same park. But while Castiel condemns and grieves the latter, he understands now the former. The Earth truly is one of his Father’s greatest creations, and he savors being able to feel it again.

“Kind of a crappy day,” Jody comments from behind him.

Castiel opens his eyes slowly, looking at her, and then around the small back yard. “It’s beautiful.”

Jody studies him for a moment. “You really are an angel, huh?”

He has no response for that, having already discussed his angelic origins today, but it seems she doesn’t need one. Drawing up the hood of her sweatshirt, and crossing her arms against the chilly air, she stands beside him, quietly.

“Claire says she’s going with you guys when you leave.”

Castiel’s head snaps to her in surprise. “What?”

Jody snorts. “Guessing she didn’t run that one by you. Can’t wait to see how Dean takes it.”

“She can’t...she should—” he starts to say, but then reconsiders, and finishes, defeatedly, “I’m not her father. I have no right to say.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Jody allows. “Lord knows it hasn’t been easy to get her to listen to me over the past year.”

“Jody, I really am grateful for—”

“I know. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.” She turns to him, her hands on her hips, and he meets her unwavering gaze. “Claire’s been through a lot. I know I don’t even have the whole story. But what I do know is that she might say she’s a tough cookie and that she’s an adult and can do what she wants, but she’s still a kid.”

“I know.”

“Knowing and understanding are two different things.” Castiel frowns, and Jody continues, “If she goes with you guys, you have to _be_ there. Not just literally.”   

He lets her words mull over in his mind before he says, solemnly, “I think I understand.”

Jody casts a critical eye over his features—Castiel does not find it difficult to believe that this woman is in law enforcement—but nods when she seems satisfied with his sincerity.

“Cas!” Dean’s voice calls from inside the house, and the storm door swings open with a creak before slapping shut behind him. “There you are, man. Hey, Jody. So, uhh, we’re gonna get out of your hair soon, no worries.”

“Take your time, Dean,” Jody says, patting the hunter on the arm twice as she walks by on her way into the house.

Once she’s inside, Dean turns to Cas with a slight frown. “You two ok? You didn’t pull any awkward angel crap on her, did you?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I am capable of having a ‘normal’ conversation, Dean.”

“Uh huh.” Dean blinks as a particularly large and random drop of rain hits his cheek, despite the fact that the weather seems to be holding in this foggy mist state. Hands in his pockets, he, too surveys the yard. “Needed a break from everyone, huh?”

Cas just nods, relieved that he doesn’t have to explain. The love and attention has been wonderful, but a bit overwhelming, especially after so long with the company of Lucifer. For the first time in a long while, his headspace is his own.

Dean looks around, nods to himself, then goes back towards the house, grabbing a blue tarp covering a woodpile under the awning. He shakes it out, inspects it, then says to Cas with a jab of his head to the right, “C’mon.”

Intrigued, Cas follows, but his curiosity is short-lived when Dean flips the tarp over to the dry side and drapes it on the wet, wooden bench swing in the corner of the yard. Together, they sit, their shoulders and thighs pressed together. Cas sinks back against swing, and Dean does, too. Neither of them make the swing move.

Clearing his throat, Dean pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Sam says I should show you this.”

The lined paper is creased and the handwriting is cramped—Sam’s, he recognizes. The words are in Latin, and seem to be part of a spell, if the first line is anything to go by.   

Cas looks up to Dean. “Is this what you used to contact me?”

“Yeah, this is just my part, though. Claire and Sam and Donna’s parts were a little different.”

“Well, Donna was the anchor, although I’m still not sure why—”

“Just read the damn thing, Cas.”

The language is a little overwrought for Cas’ taste, but the spell seems fairly standard, calling to the subject of the spell over time and planes of existence and other barriers. But the last line…

_We call to you from our hearts. I call to you from my heart. I call to my Heart._

“Bet you wish you could just fly off right about now,” Dean quips with an uncomfortable laugh.

“Dean, I never _wanted_ to leave you.” He pauses, unsure how to say all that he means. The human languages are so constricting. “And I want to stay. With _you_.”

Dean’s eyes widen and stare at him, the green almost grey in the dim light. Finally, he smiles, an expression Cas returns. Shifting, Dean settles back against the blue tarped-boards, leaning into Cas, one arm resting lightly along the back of the bench. The swing rocks gently in the soft mist.

 

 _Thud._ Claire’s duffel makes a surprisingly solid sound as it lands on the back seat of the Impala.

“What do you mean, you’re coming with us?” Dean snaps as Sam and Cas look on.

“You said this Amara is still out there and she’s the biggest Big Bad you’ve come across, right?” Claire replies, crossing her arms and staring down the hunter—an impressive feat, Castiel decides, considering their height differences.

“Exactly, so—”

“So it sounds like we have work to do.” And with that, Claire gets into the car, slamming the door with perhaps a little more finality than necessary.

Sam laughs softly and climbs into his usual place in the passenger seat, while Dean, for once, looks like he’s at a loss for words, his mouth hanging open.

“Goddamn teenagers,” he grumbles, then jabs a finger at Cas. “This is your fault.”

“I don’t deny it,” Cas answers, and a traitorous grin plays on his lips.

“Sonofabitch,” Dean exhales, although without any real vehemence.

“She does have a point, though.”

“Yeah, guess you’re right.” Dean runs a hand over his mouth, then gives Cas a pointed look. “But no more solo missions, you hear me?”

Cas is tempted to remind Dean of his own “solo missions” and how well they turned out—the Mark of Cain comes to mind, for instance—but decides it would be unwise to do so. Better to focus on what’s ahead than on what’s behind.

“No more,” he agrees. “Together.”

Even though the scar has faded, Cas’ hand still finds the spot on Dean’s shoulder with ease, gripping him in reassurance. They both know that _this_ is new between them, and at once very old, and that there is more to say, more to do, than the present will allow. For now, it is enough to know that they are loved, and loved in return.

_I am my beloved’s and he is mine._

There is much the Bible gets wrong, but there is also much it gets right.     

Sam honks the horn, startling them apart, and Dean curses.

“I’m gonna kill that Sasquatch,” he mutters, before giving a cocky smile. “But not before we gank this bitch. Together. C’mon, Cas. Claire’s right: we got work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, if you were expecting super-fluff and epic love confessions, sorry to disappoint. I tried to keep this as canon-verse as possible (and I think if Destiel ever does go canon, it'll be kind of understated like this).
> 
> Also, remember the title of the fic is "Saving Cas", not "Killing Amara", so sorry if you were looking for a solution to that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! I've been amazed with the feedback I've received on this. You guys are are the best. <3
> 
>  
> 
> Check out my other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
> [Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
> Come visit me on Tumblr! @[grey2510](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/)


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